sometimes I love misery too much. I'm really not like this all the time. In fact, most of the people who know me would say I'm nothing like I pretend to be; a pathetic unhappy whiner. The people I work with, to my endless astonishment, love me. And I am liked for the work I do by my employer as well. I just seem to have a need to be unhappy. I have to ask, What the hell is so scary about being happy?
Maybe it's the onset of summer with dawn at 4:30 AM and sunset around 8:00 PM, but I'm thinking more and more lately about taking down the wailing mummies, even changing the background from black (now that I've got all the pages just about working right). But just thinking about it. No unsettling plans yet, thank God.
What is this I'm doing? Oh yeah, a journal. I did nothing today. I gazed stupidly at my DSL router—the modem-like box with lights that flash, and wires that go from here to somewhere over the rainbow—and back. I get about 360 kilobits/sec, which is about ten times more than my dial-up connection was giving me. A far cry from the '275 times faster' claim they have advertised. Which is actually just what my line is capable of, since I live within a stones throw of the phone company's central office for the whole city. Even the God-like creature who installed it said so, with phrases like "excellent peak-load," and "near-perfect load-balancing." I have a theoretical asynchronous (more download than upload) bandwidth of over 7 Mbps. That's seven million. Even at so-called near-synchronous rates, which causes download bandwidth to decrease precipitously in order to allow a small increase in upload bandwidth, that should still allow over 800 Kbps. I've been getting 360Kbps.
What a pain in the ass am I? You must think me a jerk for complaining about getting 'only' TEN TIMES my usual speed, the speed I was happy with up til a couple weeks ago. But like they say, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and I know what is possible (I think), so... Stay tuned for more scathing e-mails. (Naw, just kidding, but I am going to call just to ask).
babbling is good. I don't do nearly enough. Just unplanned-outcome, content-careless, grammer-disoriented babbling. I wanted to write just three e-mails today, make a trip to CVS, and maybe rearrange some furniture, cleaning a bit in the process. I wrote two e-mails. Period. Well, not period. I also read all of Tim's Journal, quite an emotional experience. Shut off your ICQ, AIM, and Y! then sit down for a couple hours (maybe three to really absorb it) and read it from the beginning (in January). This is not writing for entertainment, this is writing for life. It could change yours.
Much to my consternation, I saw some stunning weblog sites this morning, which led to stunning-er homepages, which led to the discouragement of the jealous infant in my head who runs things most of the time. I don't remember the URLs. I've blocked them out. But it all started at Jay's weblog, which is pretty cool itself. <== That's what I mean by 'disoriented grammer'.
Just so you, the reader, knows (whoever you turn out to be—probably an archaeology student in the year 2710) the nav arrows all work now. makemealiarIdareyou. And I 'fixed' the way the red outline on the page lines up on the right side (mutterings: 'What red outline?' and 'That was lined-up before, now it's crooked!'). And if it doesn't work, tough cookies, I haven't gotten my javascript manual yet (due tomorrow) so anything that DOES work here is either stolen (not really, only with permission) or it's the result of my 'roll your own' method of javascripting, and any functionality is accidental.
Which brings up 2 things: cookies, which I hope to be employing here shortly, to assist in navigation, so when you arrive here you'll go right to the very first entry you haven't seen yet. And the phrase 'roll your own' which reminds me of a time when I studied radio theory and had an actual recipe for rolling my own can-type capacitors, which I attempted. There was a hole in the top of the ancient steel and formica kitchen table where I tried rolling my own—and still is if the table still exists. It was the early Seventies.
Enough babbling, I'm exhausted and going to sleep. To you I send my love. Good night.
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