it's 4:21 am, on September 02, 2003 - intense terror: one.

~

doqz emailed me and now I have this mind-numbing fear that nothing I could reply is going to be the right thing. intense terror: one. disa: zero.

--

My arm feels like a dead weight on the end of my shoulder. It's like I'm carrying a sack of potatos attached to my torso. I spelled that "attacked". my arm, attacks my torso?

Wow. I think I've finally hit that point in coding where you cannot see anything except in < >'s.

--

randomly, because even if no one else cares, I like it:

NARRATION: Blah blah blah, these are the gates of the underworld, on your right you'll see Tantalus, on your left you'll see Sisyphus. In front of you you'll see Dante, immortalized in bronze forever more for bringing a vision of the Underworld to the modern world.

[Panel; Dante's statue is speaking; people are walking past, ignoring him.]

NARRATION: [whispering?] Have you read The Inferno? [panel of her looking sneaky] Neither have I.

--

perhaps I'm still feeling a little stung by the sheer disinterest. perhaps I'm just overwhelmed with having to be by myself on a thing. how do people do it, day in and day out, write without explaining themselves? It's impossible.

~

-

what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
- - July 19, 2015
- - July 01, 2015
bruise - June 29, 2015

-