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May. 3rd, 2005

Over the din of misfiring neurons, I've got REM's "Near Wild Heaven" playing in my head now. I was originally going to simply post "And then he had no more to say." But I figured that was too cryptic even for me. I will never run out of things to say. This I know to be true. It's just a question of whether or not I say them.

In recent work developments, I hit my first deadline at DHS, got some things smoothed over and in line, and managed to get someone known for incessant complaining and bitterness to give that up and start to work towards changing something that pisses off all the server developers by focusing on the issue and the most likely actual solution.

My stomach was, today, the best it's been in a while. I distributed my eating more and had beverages on hand more or less constantly. I even cheated by ... say it ain't so ... having a can of caffeinated Coca-Cola this afternoon. But I spread it out over the span of an hour, and would have gotten caffeine-free had it been available. And this was all after having a handful of beers at wrestling last night, which in the words of one attendee was much better than the pay-per-view the night before.

And I may soon be a freelance writer with a gig, if I can hack it. Writing fiction for an RPG book. They just had to let a writer go and are currently putting together a tryout package for me. Who knows, this could really be something.

So, I'm fine, discounting the nervous and gastrointestinal systems. And no, I'm not fine, but I did ask for it. I'll skip the drama and go back to stewing in my own juices. I'm jotting down a few metaphors and notes for if I need to write about this feeling ... but I'm going to do it like I should. Privately.

In other words, and you know I don't say this lightly, FUCK OFF.

- Pookah

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