not labeled for individual retail sale

31.7.05

omg liek f=ma?? lol lol loll!!! wat wuz n3wton thinkin???

BANG.

The car door snapped shut, and I found myself painfully on my feet with one hundred pounds of luggage. Not far away from me was Papa, waving a feverish goodbye while stepping as hard as he can on the gas. He, too, wanted to get away from the sun. I could imagine. The only real difference between San Diego and Los Angeles was ten degrees.

My lung took a full sigh of hot air, gasoline, and virus-imbrued vapor. I looked around, still not being able to comprehend that I had made it this far. I am on the west coast. I have four new puppies, since news came to me that my imaginary dog had procreated with some bimbo on the street. I am a free girl, and if I wanted to, I could easily get lost in the crowd, speed up, and escape from the ugly cycle that I know as life. I am with you, LAX. *tear.

Now, LAX has always been one of my favorite airports, especially since I've taken too many rendez-vous as a little kid to Taiwan, which entails the mandatory stop at this lovely, international hizatch. I don't know whether my parents also shared my fetish, but if they did, this long standing love will soon break down. During my wait in line, I did nothing but wince and think about everything that was wrong. My memories were full of plush chairs, clean carpets, large digital clocks beaming all the times around the world – an overall feel of organization and creative design, like Target. Décor would be simple but unique, often juxtaposed at the passenger's vote and whim. Crew members would be pretty and elegant, not slutty and overbearing. A true, stereotypical airport where TV dramas were always staged. Instead, I looked upon an ordinary building, no different from any other in a smaller town, or even a worse city. It appeared all too much like its own ghetto, and nothing like IND, which I love, but to a lesser extent. All their materials seemed to be cheap and grimy and plastic, like they couldn't afford comfort. Everything was navy blue. From the floor to the ceiling I was forced to look at jarring displacement, akin to my room before revamp: pink lamps, dark brown dressers, soft silky curtains, but a postmodern rainbow comforter. No one understood the word variety, even when I used it in context. Scans turned up empty-handed, and still I winced as I dragged two separate baggages into the air-conditioned room.

Were the people in southern California really this pushy? Were they always so stupid and fat and impatient? We got into a line which consisted of at least forty individuals, and I stared blankly in front of me at a huge butt. Even though I don't really love my mother, she was handling another hundred pounds of stuff, trying at every moment to quell the larger one from flipping sideways. That pulled a few strings attached to my heart. We both knew she had suffered a recurring bout of back pain.

"Excuse me, but I was in front," interrupted a wrinkly lady that looked far too young for her age. Covergirl, no doubt. No, actually, she wasn't. She was from another line and, seeing a huge gap due to our fumbling, stepped forward rapidly to block us off.

Mother began to protest, because we were running late.

The woman waved off the English. "Do you have passports?" she asked, her face now wearing faux concern.

What does she mean, Do we have passports? Why, because we're Asian and my mother doesn't speak fluently? Because we were rude in claiming our rightful spot as next in line? Because we towed suspicious-looking luggage that were bursting at the seams from a month-long jaunt in Chula Vista? Because we don't use Covergirl?

"Of course we have passports," I replied brusquely. And with that, the woman's face fell and let us pass her without complaint.

I pulled my luggage away with much protest from inertia. The woman, now officially behind us, laughed at my attempts and hastily rearranged her face into sorrowful understanding when I glanced at her. Bitch.

By the time we pulled up to a Southwest airlines personnel, we were sweating from so much work. And, let me tell you, what a load of assistance she was! Her name was...well, I forgot, but I'll conveniently call her Savolowsky, because that's the only query Google says nothing about. At any rate, Savolowsky did absolutely nothing to direct her attention to her customers, opting instead to laugh with a nearby colleague over some stupid thing I didn't want to hear about, while interspersing important words like "Name?", "Photo ID?", and "Reservation number?" between vapid chatter. Um, hello? Shouldn't you be doing your job with more focus, and maybe a little enthusiasm? I mean, I'm really excited about asdf marrying too, but, I'd appreciate it if you'd help my fifty-two year old mother with hauling things up on the weighing scale. Bitch.

Eventually we were redirected to a policeman wielding several nasty things like a two-way radio, and a leather belt. He was nice enough to help us put our four items underneath the fabric tape that marked a policeman-only area. Thank you, Rubarbly Billy-Bob. You deserve a promotion.

I was fuming by the time I reached our terminal. I knew we had to get something to eat because it was noon already, and domestic flights aren't known for its hospitality or generosity. The only edibelría that sold food for less than fifty dollars, however, was McDonalds. I certainly wasn't loving it when I saw another mob of obese people struggling to tear down the place. I quickly stood in the third line, taking the opportunity to call my dad (Hi dad. Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. I understand. Right. Suxx0r. Why? Oh. Really? ...Truly! Gracious me! Forsooth! Et cetera! Wait, that was out of character, right?).

A cute little Mexican girl was whining about getting a toy plz plz plz in beautiful Spanish. Her mother looked both vexed and anxious while holding the child's hand. "Hush," she reprimanded, peeking nervously around her. A lot of families were starting to stare. "Muévete allá, la linea es más rapida." Go stand in the second line; it's faster. It was moving with more momentum at the time of the statement. Her daughter, nevertheless, had other plans. She repeatedly stood out of place to be closer to her mama. "Mira hija," the woman pointed, whenever this happened. At last, sick of reiterating, she counted aloud to present evidence. "A ver...uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis y aquí uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis igual. Oh, es igual." Nevermind. My line caught up a few minutes ago. With nothing else to talk about, the Toy Subject surfaced again. I finally gathered the nerve to turn around.

"Creo que McDonalds no se regala un jugete con su comida," I replied kindly to the girl. The mother's agitated expression dropped, replaced by a blatant smile, because I did her job. The hardest thing to do - ever - is to deliver bad news in the face of hope.

Unscathed, save for a penny. And what is with the 10-piece chicken nugget thing (later, I suspected that I only swallowed nine), a shot of sprite, medium fries, and two packets of barbecue sauce (one of which I ended up not using at all)? Oh, that's right. I ate it. The penny was for that Korean dude who had spiky hair. He punched in my orders with such pizzazz and efficiency. I still have this vague, tingly feeling that he just walked off of a set from a kickass TV series, like Trading Spaces.

Again, back to the penny thing. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why he kept asking for a copper coin. I thought maybe I was going to be rewarded for my loyalty to McDonalds with a cute penny that became oblong and deformed after vigorous pressing through a leet machine. But no, it turned out he wanted a little tip for his service. God-befuck-the-wha-? A cent for a tip? Wow. California has some really strange people. I should have given him at least a buck if I'd known, but I was pushed out of the way before I had a chance to even say goodbye to my lover.

*Sigh.

I still miss you, pennywenny.

So, we arrived at Phoenix after stale peanuts and cramped seats with, again, little brouhaha for us. I took a dive in a store with tons of magazines, took one look at something that said "Wi-fi without hotspots" (so funny, I happened to be searching for a connection then), and dropped it like it was hot. Like HOT MAMA. Only not really.

Then I wandered from terminal to terminal like some Bedouin with...a laptop. No luck. Better get some expensive Wifi bloodhounds, eh? Fuck that shit! But, connection or no, I was pretty low on battery, so I changed course and decided to search for outlets. I wanted to be able to read a few more chapters in Harry Potter on the long plane ride. This whim hinges solely on whether my computer decides to sleep or stay awake. My ecstasy built up when I saw one right above some middle-aged man with his daughter (why are there so many daughters in this airport noquestionmark).

With grace like one who is learned in the matters of social etiquette, I blabbed, "Hey, I'm going to use this outlet above you, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, I shoved my power brick into the wall.

...

Nothing.

No orange light signifying recharge.

It was then I realized that I had been fooled.

22.7.05

rumors about the tooth faerie

Two days ago the world started raining just enough for me to get scared, but it turned out to be a pathetic drizzle. I actually fled with my laptop during the peak of the storm - you know - when you could see a few specks of water land on the concrete and start turning the whole floor into a really ugly shade of dirt gray? Well, yeah! Now I can say "I've been through that once in my life before!"

It was muggy and hot and fucking uncomfortable throughout the rest of the day (I ran to the Chula Vista library again, they had air conditioning), which leaked into yesterday, and now today, but the night is making me impossible to stay angry at the weather. jet was right; that time I told him I was logging off because my tummy hurt due to unwise ingestion was, in fact, a normal part of being a girl. I didn't find this out until I actually came home. There is a reason for my bitchiness that is evident throughout this post, and I do apologize in advance for such an eyesore. At this point, I feel like arguing with everyone, even if they said cos^2 theta + sin^2 theta = 1. Try it. I'm sure it would make a hilarious Adium log, and you can probably walk off shaming me and spreading hideous rumors about how pig-headedly ignorant and incoherent I am.

Just remember, I gave you permission.

I woke up and realized that I had been floating about seven feet off the ground. This was surprising, because I didn't know our ceiling was even built that high. Go Cambridge Apartments! Way to build tall dwellings for such petite humans as myself! I applaud you, and would gladly pay extra rent this month. Not that I pay it anyway.

I walked onto the carpet without my flip-flops to grab a large dark-green suitcase in the adjacent room, and before I knew what I was doing, I was packing. I sniffed every article of clothing to make sure it was clean (you cannot believe how awful the washers are here for a buck a cycle; sometimes scent alone can't let you to separate the pile accordingly either), and folded it neatly before I headed outside near the gate to practice my wireless again.

I came back sometime really soon. I didn't like the outside for algo razón, so I think I contented myself by curling out on the couch provided by CA and reading chapter 11 of The Half-Blood Prince. Suddenly, through the wooden windows that connected to the kitchen, there was an eccentric popping noise that mimicked (poorly) of popcorn being heated. My head shot up, my hands reached the two gold knobs and pulled the windows apart, and I saw our rice cooker trembling slightly in place. Mother promptly lifted the lid to reveal an unnecessary amount of steam. I looked in. The water around the rice was just beginning to boil.

"Oh dear," intoned Mother. "It's broken."

Damn right it's broken, after 15 good years of wearing use. I wondered how we would have our meal now that what we had depended on for so long finally crashed and bled out. (Seriously, I didn't even know that inanimate objects could contract Ebola). Mother took out a huge, stainless-steel cylindrical pot that she and I had picked out at the local 97 cent store (that's right, ninety-SEVEN for all you pedants who think it's 99). Her fingers barely scorched as she pinched the sides of the container and flipped the rice elegantly over into the pot. By now, I have made into the kitchen and was standing by her side. The heavy waft of Jasmine was merciless to me and drifted lazily into the air. The contents looked so silly and vulnerable. This was a huge pot. It took... a mere 1/20 of the space. I wonder if sweet nothings were being exchanged now, as they neared their death and consumption. A last minute goodbye? A hasty kiss on the cheek - no time for that passionate tongue action? Or do the laws of physics - shut up, laws of physics!

"You start with an intense heat," she explained, while adding some tap water from the faucet, "and when all that water evaporates, you bring it down to a low simmer so the rice within can suffocate and mature."

Oh.

Right.

By then I went outside again, not willing to look at that reflective pot in the face. Do pots even have faces, anyway? Well, whatever. As long as the Jasmine rice turn out to be just as excellent as before, I don't give a damn which method you employ.

For now, you can all call me the tooth faerie.

21.7.05

rubber duckie, you're the one

You make bathtime, so much fun.

19.7.05

every pion decay constant has a goose

So, um, right. Xerxes, this is for you (again). I bought you the knife. You know, for your talk. Just in case.

We all love you.

Even if f_pi doesn't.

18.7.05

what microsoft did to win my love and virginity

It was the first time I had sweat stuck to my shirt before I left for the library.

It was also the first time I took off at a leisurely pace, the first time I crossed the street immediately, and the first time I made myself a nice rice snack. There's always a first time; then you lie about all your other times and pass them off as first.

I seriously thought about hurling my laptop into the pretty blue waters of our swimming pool today. Someone put a pipe in it or algo así, and water kept frothing out of one corner as if a wicked kid dunked himself under there, kicking until all the oxygen left his lungs and his legs were just mechanical detachments. Whatever was making the bubbles, I didn't stay long enough find out. I was probably more interested in escape.

Cute. Cute is a good word to describe our kitchen. If I opened one cabinet, all the others start to smell from old age and rotten wood. Because of this, I've always been extra careful to open one and then shut it immediately - not because I was afraid of stench, but because I could trick the neighboring oak into thinking that I wasn't going to open it again. Today was no different. I pulled on it, slammed it close, and pulled on it again, this time reaching for a red and transparent package. My mother had recently bought me a large batch of seasoned seaweed, and I eagerly tore the wrappings open to pop a few in my mouth.

Wait.

Spicy?!

What?

No, really.

I swallowed and started to read was written on the front of the package. I stopped when I realized everything was in Japanese. No, wait a minute, look - there, see it? that says "la wei". Which means hot flavor. Funny. The ingredients list on the back said nothing about spice.

No matter; none of this got in the way of making my snack. The only thing that would was a person - a person other than myself, of course. At one point I slumped over the sink when I thought I heard someone coming, but let up again in relief after a mere second or two. False alarm. They've been happening a lot more than usual, eh?

Jasmine rice.

Another commodity made available by my dear mother since I had praised the rice at that one Chula Vista restaurant so highly. Damn, it smells so good - even after cooking, after lifting the lid repeatedly to refill my bowl during lunch. I wondered how Jasmine rice viewed itself. Tasty? Slender? White? Separate, qiu qiu, heterogeneous? Lista? I giggled. ¿Estás lista, o no? I pictured one of them whispering sweet nothings to another after a difficult day of sitting calmly in the water. Or did another stupid rule in physics dictate that Jasmine rice wasn't sentient, and even if it were it couldn't observe itself anyway? Stupid physics.

I barely remembered what should have used as a container, but I do know that I ended up with an odd-shaped styrofoam cup. My fingers had groped instinctively for the fourth one down; the first three stacked above had almost toppled out had it not been for my head, which butted it back into place.

Then I grabbed the white spatula and started scooping ungodly amounts of rice into the cup. I ripped the delicate seaweed into pieces, spent around thirty quality minutes with my sister, the single chopstick, and by the end of the hour I had made a yummy treat that would last only a minute.

My hair protested as I went out the door. The cup was now safely tucked into my Targus laptop case, after I layered on top of it two yellow, spread-out napkins tied firmly down with a red rubber band. Saevar said zugg scanned all the pages of the sixth Harry Potter book and extracted the text forming a lot of htmls. But I know better. Microsoft did it, and I'm planning to marry it soon. He gave me the zip file and went offline, and now I have something to do without pretending to be working, or busy, or rereading Ender's Game, which I have already done.
liquid dot nitrogen at gmail dot com, if you don't already have one. But I'm sure you already do.

Life is funny, you know? I didn't pre-order anything, nor did I get into a long line of noisy people pushing each other to their deaths get the first copy. But I did get a digital version in which certain r's were replaced with t's because the software got lost sometimes when it tried to translate the page. And funny - that I was curious as to how long the file "30.html" was, but by opening it, I have spoiled one of the things for myself. I know who died, you know. Just ask me.

Czechoslovakia.

It's not Slovakia, or the Czech Republic. It's Czechoslovakia.

13.7.05

fuchsia always spells itself wrong

My feet smell if I stand in a puddle of pink foam for a very long time. This observation has been scientifically proven (please refer to the latest entries in hep-th), and furthermore supported by the below empirical evidence. Before I went with mum to wash my car today, my feet didn't give off any suspicious odors. After my nice black shoes got soaked with, oh, let's just say, disgusting fuchsia cleaning agents, I went home with not only ruined shoes but stinky feet. Fortunately, this is only temporary. With a shower I'll be as spiffy as...um...when I was born.

So lately things have calmed down. Father came home with a complaint and a headache, two things that should never mix, but do frequently anyway. He was bitching about his work again, and how if he had read this composite thing earlier he would have "astounded his interviewer" [original quote in Chinese]. Then he asked me if I remembered how to extract a characteristic polynomial.

"Dad, I don't have an LA book," I replied.

"No no no, I just want to know the sec eq stuff. Why should a kid your age need an LA book to begin with?"

I felt like choking him then. But I thought, if I choked him right now, what would be left for me to do when I feel really, really angry? That's right. Stuff Wikipedia in his mouth.

So I plunkered off feeling rather shitty because I had promised to help him (a guy his age shouldn't forget linear algebra in the first place), which equals translating four pages of encyclopedia mush into a difficult language. The said pages include words like "field", "eigenvalue", and most notably, "fuck you!". That's a lot of work for me.

Did I mention, I've never taken linear algebra in my life before? That's totally not a problem, because according to my parents, I've been solving differential equations since I was 12!

I wish.

Anyway, he ended up not being able to spell 'polynomial', because talking over the phone is like talking to your deaf grandmother, who can't hear you in the first place. After thirty minutes of hard work, he exclaimed at how beautiful the encyclopedia is, coughed several times, and hung up. Wow. Thanks a lot, Dad. I love you too.

Today he came home with a 40 pages worth of shit because he clicked on every fucking link the article had and printed it all out. He explained to me that his high school never focused on matrices a lot, and (in a very pretentious air) told me if I could understand it all he'd buy me a cow or something. Come on, Dad! Lots of your colleagues probably don't know what the Laplace forumla is (I bet Vince doesn't). Admitting it is the first step.

I went outside to patter on my keyboard before I had a chance to tell him that he was looking at the wrong similarity link. He started scribbling in the middle-school geometry area, and printed out the topology section too, leaving the portion squished in between, which was clearly marked, blank. How touching.

To make this entry slightly more whiny, I will conclude with an unhappy note. Later on I went to Henry's because they had sweet deals like 97 cents per watermelon (limit two!) and 67 cents per pound green beans (limit six pounds). But then I went to see Mother self-wash our vehicle [details I will not include], and I got my glasses all waxed. Conclusion: pissed off.

Moral of the story: Australian kids are really smart.

11.7.05

300,000 is a number

July 10th 2005 || 23:01

You know what's funny? I think networks like to run away from me. Before I was forced to sit outside and endure bites from various insects, I was using a connection called NETGEAR. Then, for some reason, it decided to quit on me, leaving nothing but its brother 2WIRE274, which demanded a password due to WEP encryption. Now, both have vanished from Airport's list of available networks. Pretty strange, eh? Maybe it's because I don't know Russian.

Well, I didn't get to revising calculus or revising C++ today, but I did get to see all the stores close in front of my eyes at a major shopping plaza. Just as we all arrived, everything was shutting down. We had forgotten that it was Sunday, which meant early hours and little brouhaha. Silly us. The empty parking garages that met us should have given us a hint, but my dad was too concentrated on celebrating his find on the perfect nook for our car. Yeah, good job dad. Way to go, seeing virtually ever spot was unclaimed anyway. All in all, a very disappointing evening. But whom can I blame? No body, except me! I was the one who dragged my parents to take me shopping at the last minute!

/me stretches

So...that leaves tomorrow all open for me to read a hundred pages in my textbook, and another fifty from The Stuff I Stole From Mr. Combs [TSISFM.C]. Oh glory, I can't wait!

...I have no idea why I'm so upset about doing math.

Maybe it's because I found out the county department dealing with property and taxes and useless shit is based in Murrieta (um, Demie, it's actually in Temecula) and not Riverside. This means I will not be dropped off at UCR campus and will not be seeing Baez. Fuck that county shit! Move your damn headquarters back to Riverside!

Imma gonna email him tomorrow (technically, today, because you readers are seeing the product of yesterday, as I have no internet connection indoors and am reduced to typing on Word) and ask him to hand over his number that way. And, to ensure that he does, I'll probably add a little threat at the end for fright's sake. Like, "My mother saved Gauss' life on more than one occasion, so that genius owes [the family] one. You had better give me your contact info or Gauss'll have your head when he sees how displeased I am," or maybe something more appealing to sympathy: "My mother is dying...if only you could hand over your cell phone number so I can sell it to get money...you are a really popular guy, you know, especially around sci.physics.research...you have a whole fan base..."

Damn, I'm moved to tears! I had no idea that emotional stuff was in me. Furthermore, I had no idea that I could make myself cry. Maybe this will win me a 1st place ribbon in OP next year during sectionals. Maybe.

As for life, life is spiffy right now. I am not tired, not pissed, and not hungry. And I haven't had to resort to Ramen noodles, which, despite its sinfully good taste, means I'm not overwhelmed with work. Yay!

Currently, here's how I've mapped out my tomorrow.

2) Wake up.
3) Groan.
5) Sleep for another hour.
7) Really wake up this time.
11) Groan again.
13) Take five.
17) Have mother bitch in your face and haul you up by your nightgown.
19) Jump out in and out of clothes.
23) Eat breakfast, or if possible, skip it.
29) Swallow medication.
31) Do hair, apply chapstick, snap cell phone out of charger.
37) Sit in a car for an hour trying hopelessly to get on a network.
41) Give up.
43) Begin reading code.
47) End reading code.
53) Get out of car.
59) Stand around doing nothing for several hours.
61) Keep standing.
67) Look innocent.
71) Finally get out of the damn place.
73) ?
79) Go home.
83) Eat dinner.
89) Read a bedtime story before you go to bed - integration techniques!, chapter five
97) Go to bed.

I'm so excited!!
Wish me good luck, guys~~!!!!1111 LOLOLOLOLOL!!!!

Right.

Besos,
Demie

10.7.05

no, because it isn't scalar

Update: lethe wrote a sentence back to me three and a half hours ago.

i am a mazda commercial

July 9th, 2005 || 0142

I don't know what type of bitch I am. I just reopened a doc containing some sparse contents of my novel, and realized that I have been using the font Cochin. I mean, I'm all open to Macs and their wonderful font selection, but Cochin? Come on! Grow up already!

Speaking of which, I've been living like a child these past few days. Between rendezvous to various suburbs like El Cajon (which really should have an agiu over the o, but those lazy sign-makers don't bother with correct syntax) and my own ant-infested adventures (positioning myself strategically to receive the network, default), I have hardly enough time to sip a bit of boba tea or even sit down. And by sitting down, I mean my butt connects with something, preferably plastic – not concrete. My spine's been taking a blow, and so has my skin. But, I asked for wifi, right? That means I'll have to be prepared to make some sacrifices, however severe they are.

It's nice to see that Xerxes has made up with his girlfriend. He didn't even tell me of their brief reconciliation though! And after all that time I spent with him nodding my head (even if he couldn't see me) and empathizing with his bitter stance, you'd think he'd do me the favor of saying, "Oh, by the way Demie, gf and I are back." But nooo. Well, I guess it isn't entirely his fault. This did just happened recently. I know that because when he was suffering from his self-induced whiplash, things were still unpleasant (123215 sparkling_watermelon@mindless.com: yay! things with gf are better!! 123225 xerxes314@hotmail.com: not really. excerpt July 8th 2005, Adium) Id est, in order to install kde 3.4, he needed kconfig_compiler; in order to get kconfig_compiler he needed kde 3.2; in order to get kde 3.2 he needed arts 1.1; and in order to get arts 1.1 he needed root access, which was impossible. So basically, he wasted two days installing an environment by means of a dead end street. Summary: pissed girlfriend, pissed linux, and pissed neck.

By some magical incantation our favorite lattice theorist and our favorite Taiwanese chick got back together. Flowers bloomed from every corner, lots of sparkles fell from the sky, and even Kiki the hyperactive ferret attempted to trek across treacherous terrain to give her blessings. She never made it.


Well, that is, until they got into a minor bickering again on their night plans. Something about catching a 22:40 movie (or rather, avoiding it) and where they should go out to eat in the one of the busiest downtowns in the world: Manhattan.


Anyway, enough broadcasting on my unofficial cousin's life. I have no clue how their date went, but I bet it ended with something like:


21:35:54 Sylvia: Xerxes, you don't understand!
21:35:57 Xerxes: What is there to understand?
21:36:03 Sylvia: If you understood you wouldn't have to ask me in the first place!
21:36:04 Xerxes: But –
21:36:15 Sylvia: I don't care! I've stopped caring since this afternoon, when I began to make arrangements for tonight! I hate you so much, but I keep convincing myself that maybe you'll change!
21:36:20 Xerxes: Change what? My hero-complex? My conceit? My genius?
21:36:41 Sylvia: No! (tears start here) I keep hoping that you stop pursuing me...pursuing me...because you don't really love me...but I can't, as you're irresistible when you want to be, so my every move lies in your hands...but...but...(intense crying here)
21:36:45 Xerxes: You hate me because you think I don't love you?
21:36:51 Sylvia: Of course you don't...love me...so many girls have tried...why should I win...?
*Xerxes grabs Sylvia and intense making out starts here (21:36:59)

All my other friends are doing fine.

Well, except lethe of course. Is he even my friend though? I'm worried sick about him, and I'm sick of worrying about him. He's been gone for at least two weeks, and his only visible sign of life is when he posts on funky functors. Oh and, last week when nettie made me check myspace, he apparently logged in on July 1st. That's it. He has since neglected his Feynman diagrams. Frankly, I don't even think I'm part of the team anymore. Should I go ahead and write a draft of the forum rules? Or should I not waste my time? After hearing nettie's story, I've been inspired to pay for his college – and to do that, I must publish my book as soon as possible. Which means avoiding time sinkers. Anyway, this paragraph sounds more bitter than anxious. But for those of you who don't know me very well, I ought to tell you that I am anxious. Probably more than that. I mean, you don't know lethe. He's a mathematician. Most of you think a bit of silence gets me overreacted, but I'm pretty sure something's up when he ignores me, and a lot of the things he usually does. Sure, he's loath to tell you anything about himself – but it's definitely not like him to get up and leave. He would only do that if he's given up on me and hates me for life for what I've told chroot, or the fact that I'm highly incompetent in his professional field. Here, let's make it simple. There's a logical reason behind my fear. He can't fucking take care of himself! All I hang onto is the fact that he might be in Portland and safe, with Rebecca watching over him. That's his girlfriend.

Well, it's nearly two AM, and I can hear my parents snoring to the right of me. Luckily I'm separated by a wall. I don't know, I should go sleep or something. So here's how things wind down to.


Basically, I'm going to splurge another day tomorrow (living like a child kicks ass) by mall-hopping and pigging out every place I can dream of. Later down the week I'm going to Riverside to pay John Baez a visit, so I can obtain his cell phone number. If you guys don't know who that is, you should kick yourselves in the face.