(no subject)

Happy New Year, y'all!

For reference (like I'm gonna actually follow through...):
( I resolve...  )

Sure, it's probably going to end up all fiction, but hey. I'm *planning* on trying, right?

(no subject)

I just spent the last 3 hours sorting through old Mac items from System 7 and earlier. (For all you non-Mac folks, that's roughly 1996 and before.) While it's refreshing to get shelf after shelf after shelf of ancient desktop publishing manuals and outdated software manuals cleared -- I now have a small mountain of books and texts that's about 3' x 3' wide, and 4' high, plus another shelf-full of possibly salvageable old books for resale [Mom knows someone in the used-book biz] -- it's incredibly depressing to realize that Dad was not only loathe to throw things away, but he hadn't been feeling well enough to even weed a few bookshelves regularly since 1988 or so. That he lasted 28 years with heart disease just boggles my mind at this point; he was an invalid for more than a decade and a half that I'm even able to recognize by the paper trails and scattered childhood memories. (Also, I think part of it was that while he had all the self-publishing/home business manuals strewn about, he *felt* somehow still very much functioning and potent as a breadwinner and hard worker; that image carried despite his lack of work other than a handful of pro-bono tasks in recent years -- for all Dad was retired for over 10 years, I can't ever recall a time when I considered him weak or slow or unable to function -- with the lack of publisher's work, he became something akin to the homemaker by doing all the necessary chores of the house. Mom and I still haven't managed to dig out yet.)

Aaaand now I'm exhausted and I've had the same G.I. upset for 3 days. I need SLEEP. [Tiff, if we hang out, it's probably tomorrow evening, as I'll be sound asleep until about one in the afternoon.]

[Letting off some steam.]

Okay. I realize humans are social creatures. Really, I do. Hell, look at the movie 'Cast Away' for all the melodramatic crap that happens to the human psyche when left alone for extended periods of time.

Granted, I don't talk to volleyballs (and I'd pick a better name; Wilson is too 'Dennis the Menace', how about Spalding? Spencer? Sebastian! [with the British accent]), but F.F.S., that island looks damn good lately.

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You. Yes, you, over there. Stop it. Stop following me. Stop acting like a fucking stalker and commenting on everything you can get your grubby little paws on that relates to me in any way, shape, or nebulous form. It's really annoying, and really unnerving, not to mention more often than not, patronizing and offensive. Stop pestering me like a hyper 5-year-old; no, I can't come out to play, and no, I don't really want to entertain you. Fuck. Off. PLEASE. Yes, your little hobbies are neat, and fun, and all that good stuff, but if you've noticed, I'm really not interested. The vacant smile? It's more polite than the flipped bird I prefer in mixed company. Trust me, this isn't a game of catch-me-if-you-can or hard-to-get, it's fastidious avoidance. It's about as blatant a hint as I want to give, because I don't really feel like confronting you about how FUCKING OBNOXIOUS you are to me. I have enough stress in my life right now without trying to play the social Stepford girl. I'd rather choke you with that string of pearls while I crush your sensitive bits beneath those perky heels. Comprende?

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Anyway. (You veterans of my f-list probably shouldn't be acting shocked and offended about this; if this sort of rant surprises you by now, your powers of observation are laughable.) Just felt like getting that out of my head where it's been bouncing around the better part of a week. Cheers.