It may not be apparent with all the half-naked pictures and drug talk, but I'm a life-long computer geek. How hardcore am I? I once told a friend that if I accidentally dropped my computer bag into the Rideau Canal when it was barely above freezing I'd be hopping in after it. And I would too.
You're looking at someone who has hugged his computer on more than one occasion. I even named it after a Queer as Folk character I had a crush on. It's a terminal case, folks.
But hell, have you seen an iBook? It's an adorable little white chicklet. And how many people can say their computer always does exactly what they want?
I could, until yesterday. I came home from work after a tough day and Mac OS X needed to install an update. I said "go for it"...and something went wrong. The update program crashed. Then no other software would start. So I tried rebooting, and she never came back up. For someone who would rather go without food than his computer, this was not acceptable.
Long story short: I have to get me some install disks and it'll be fixed shortly.
It's funny though. Apple advertisers Macs as a trouble-free alternative to Windows, but my friends still seem to have a lot of problems. Mac users are just a lot more forgiving.
Let me put it this way: running Mac OS X is like being married to a really wild woman. She's dressed to the nines in designer clothes and when you're in bed you get the feeling you're in it together. She knows just what you want and she's happy to oblige. Once in a while she flies off the handle, but how could you stay mad when the makeup sex is this good?
Running Windows is like being married to...a bitch. She looks alright, but instead of buying designer clothes she shops at Winner's. She carries a clearly counterfeit Louis Vitton bag. She doesn't get upset any more often than the firecracker, but when she does she rips up all your photos and throws your clothes on the front lawn. You spend as much time trying to coax her into sex as you do having it, and she acts like she's doing you some big favour. She gets the job done but leaves you secretly bitter that she makes the simplest of tasks complex and stressful.
Have I carried that metaphor far enough yet? And thus ends the geekiest blog post I will ever write.
Nobody that reads this will ever sleep with me.
Image courtesy of Wikipedia.
I've been talking to this 18 year-old guy online lately. Don't worry, it's probably not going anywhere.
Last night we were talking on MSN, and for some reason I made a joke about the Marcarena. To which he replied:
"What's the macarena?"
I feel like an antique.
Image courtesy of Tostie14.
So there was a big ecstasy bust in the city yesterday. When you're measuring the take in kilograms, you know it's a big deal. Hell, that's enough to supply a few hundred people for life, probably. Are they looking for anyone to guard that evidence locker?
Anyways, why do the police insist on grossly exaggerating the value of the drugs they seize? Are they trying to impress someone? 'Cause nobody in this city pays $40 for a pill. It's not 1999, for crying out loud.
If any of you, my dear readers, ever gets busted and brought up on charges, I will gladly appear at your sentencing hearing pro bono. As an expert witness, I'll testify about the over-inflated value of your beloved cargo. Of course, if you could introduce me to your "successor" as a thank you, it'd be all the better.
It's funny, when you really, really get into the drug scene you learn to treat yourself like one big chemistry experiment. You learn to manipulate your body and mind to make them do what you want, when you want.
I want to act like this. I want to feel like that.
And of course the "health food store" has everything you need to counteract the side effects of the other stuff. Take this to avoid depression. Take that to help you sleep.
Finally the scientific community is recognizing all the great, uh, work I've been doing. A friend tipped me off that CAMH is doing a study into whether ecstasy causes brain damage. So of course I was right on top of that shit.
It's sort of like those studies where they give you some experimental drug to see what it does to you. Except I've been voluntarily taking it for the last 8 months.
Of course there's always the risk that this place has the same owners as my evil gym, and they're just trying to get me in so they can sell me some expensive rehab or something. Let's hope not.
The downside: the thought that I might have brain damage. The upside: at least I can make some cash off of it. The irony: funneling the money back into the drug budget.
I left a message, now I'm just waiting for a call back. Wish me luck!
PS Forgive me for being so flippant on the matter, but I've read up a great deal on the subject, and previous studies have found it causes no permanent damage when taking non-insane doses.
Totally clever picture of a guinea pig courtesy of Just A Screenager.
We already know that children can't hear the word scrotum, but did you know teenagers can't utter the word vagina?
That's right, three otherwise well-behaved high school students were suspended for reciting a few lines from The Vagina Monologues at a school event. For shame!
The school administration argues that it was an event open to the public, and there could've been children there. Oh my god, children might hear the word vagina! You know I've known the word vagina for a really long time, way back before I really knew what it entailed. Since I didn't even learn where it was until age 20, there were 14 or so years that I knew the word but couldn't find it on a...map.
And yet somehow, with this shameful word in my vocabulary, I managed avoid turning into a serial killer, rapist or pedophile.
I'm just shocked that this kind of puritanism still exists in our society. I mean, you can make a logical argument for why children shouldn't be exposed to sexuality. I'd say we usually go overboard, but the argument is there. But maintaining that the very name of their body parts shant be uttered is downright ridiculous.
Maybe the principal is sexually frustrated or something. Buy him a blow up doll and let's move on with our lives.
PS While writing this post I found the best list of vagina euphemisms ever!
My roommate was watching TV when this came on. I thought it was going to be another lame Steve Jobs parody, but it was freaking hilarious. The first couple minutes kinda suck. You have to be patient, trust me. My roommate isn't geeky at all and he was cackling as much as I was. Enjoy!
I met a friend for brunch today and somehow we started talking about the big blackout in the summer of 2003. For my generation, it's one of those key life moments, like September 11, Woodstock, or Expo 67, except more universal and in no way depressing.
Everybody remembers what they did that weekend, and everybody had a blast. And all weekend you knew you were going to remember it, because it was such an exceptional event.
People ventured out into the streets. Friends gathered and just spent time together by candlelight. It's like life decided to pull away all the things that keep us apart and said "Now you'll realize that you still have everything that matters." Nobody cared that the TV wouldn't turn on. After a while people stopped complaining about taking the stairs. Internet withdrawals faded as old friends met in person for the first time in ages.
I ended up going to the Lusk caves in Gatineau Park with a bunch of friends. Everybody came. Nobody was too busy and nobody was tethered to their cell phone. It was a freaking blast.
Deep down, I hope the people in charge of fixing the problem were incompetent, so we can have another blackout weekend. What did you do when the lights went out?
Image courtesy of GirlReporter.
