And at all endings, a new beginning

So, once again, I've managed to disappear for a while - not entirely disappeared off the face of the planet, but I always was somewhat adept at avoiding contact, and I've needed time to get my head straight again. I still doubt it is, but now things are somewhat in the rear mirror.

You may remember that I, some time ago, poured out - in a mildly drunken stupor, admitted - my heart on the topic of my girlfriend. We had a long talk where we somewhat set words to our doubts as to the nautre of our feelings towards each other. No doubt there's a lot of good feelings, but they've changed.

Over this summer, where she was with her family in Jutland, and I was here, working, I spent a lot of time thinking. The result of it didn't scare me as much as I thought it would, nor did it hurt entirely like I had expected. That I loved her, but not as a significant other ought to be loved.

It's no more than a week ago now that I went to visit her, during one of her brief returns to Copenhagen. Before I set out for her place, I felt at peace with the decision I had made inside; to tell her how I felt, and ending things there.
The closer I got to her apartment, the more the past began to resound against my mind; the sunny days, remembering all the good things; pretty predicatble stuff I know, but just then, I felt that pang of rememberance. The heavy thud of all the good memories, wrapped into a tubesock and slammed to the back of my head.

At that moment, I felt sad, and small. I felt bad because it would be the last time I'd go up those stairs as her boyfriend. I couldn't help but to smile over how easy it is to decide and govern over emotions as long as it's all on paper and in the distance, while reality and proximity will show you how vulnerable you are, when you choose to lay yourself bare to another person.

I entered her apartment, and said hi to her. For some reason, a few things that really were inconsequential, suddenly seemed so important to me.
Bear with me, I know how silly it'll look to anyone else, but I need to get it on paper.

I helped to get her a computer some time ago, and I knew she still haden't gotten peroperly set up with security software - the reason for why it seemed important was that it's what killed her last computer. Something I'd always told her I'd drop by and get set up on her machine; I just never remembered to do it while I was there. And now, I realized, it might be the last time I was there at all...It seemed infinitely important, because I didn't want to leave her hanging on something I once promised her.
*sighs*

I know that it fails utterly as a romantic notion (Yay, installing antivirus, firewall and anti-spyware!), but damnit - I cared for her, and I didn't want her to be left without _something_.

We talked a bit, about nothing and everything, and eventually went out to get some ice cream and beers - the latter mostly for me.

And when we came back home, we continued talking, and as the light grew weaker, and the second beer bottle stood empty, I finally found the courage to tell her.
I told her about how I felt I had changed, recently (as the avid reader might notice, I haven't exactly been drowning in boredom lately), and eventually I made my way through my own maze of words and memories to the point.
My voice began faltering as I looked her in the eyes and I told her that my feelings for her had changed to a point where I didn't love her as my girlfriend any longer.
...And that's when my voice broke completely, and I wasn't able to see clearly anymore. Tears tend to do that.
The next two hours we talked - or rather, I think we both cried in equal parts while talking, but even through the tears, snot and broken voices, both of us smiled a little. It hurt, but not like I've come to expect endings to; My past experiences had made me believe that the end was accompanied by both excruciating pains inside, endless floods of tears, and depending on the case at hand, the snap of the psyche. Not so this time.

It was like looking through old pictures together, the reminiscing together over what we'd created together, the good times we'd had; and the quiet acceptance of that things simply were not as they had once been. I remember us holding hands while talking, briefly breaking the hold every now and then to reach out for the ever-thinning roll of toilet paper, but I remember being able to see through tear-addled eyes to see her, as pretty as ever, just stronger, now, than the girl I met and fell in love with back then. I am unsure if I'd actually loved her more in just that moment than I had for a long time before.

She told me of how she'd felt the same way, and had felt bad about not having had the courage to talk to me about it as well; it seems that fatal talk about the future, we had come pretty close, both of us, to saying it; and since then, we had both been mulling over it on our own. And now, we were ready.

We'd always been able to talk about things, even when we strongly disagreed, we never did have a fight over anything. I believe that once a verbal fight starts, is when you stop caring for the other part's feelings.

We kissed one last time, and it was over. Like an old, tired heart beating its last beat, and falling quiet. The way things should end; softly, lovingly, and at its natural end.

I remember, just after there was nothing more for either of us to say, I stood up, stretched, and breathed deeply; and while I felt vulnerable, raw and uncertain, that feeling of being ready for it didn't leave me.

We always were good at talking; and our feelings haven't as such diminished; I am certain I haven't met her, or talked to her for the last time. I'll do all I can to not lose her as a friend, and I know she feels the same way. This is the way things should end and go on, and I look forward to the future, for the chances to see and do good things, making a difference where I am, and living again. Maybe this time, I'll be less flawed, and spend less time living in regret.


There's a song I've been listening to a goodly deal over the last months; it used to scare me a little by its words, but now that the fear has gone, and only the good memories are left; it just tugs a little at the heartstrings and makes me think of the good days;

I'll leave you with this:

Iris: Delivered One

Well your last words were "see you later"
Now the violence of love is gone
In exchange for the hopeful ending
I am liking what you've become

You've really changed
Not for the bad
Just rearranged
So the good parts are all that you have

I'm telling you now
As I'm sure the sun shines
As blessed as sacred rites
You're the delivered one

In the darkness I know I've lost it
In the light I know I'm blind
Though I'm keeping a cleaner closet
There's a whole lot more inside

In our next life
One will be late
And when arrives
The other will be there to take

I'm telling you now
As sure as at first light
The song of the sparrow cries
You're the delivered one

Hold on
I'm losing my place
Hold on
It's getting so late
Hold on
There'll be no mistakes
Now that we're on our own

Corrupted memory

Well, fuck. It seems my digitally entropic touch isn't entirely in the past.

Bear with me here, for those that might not already know, I have, it appears, a knack for disabling, damaging, and occasionally killing, electronic things.

PS2? Crashed it.
XboX? Crashed it by pressing, it'd seem, two entirely wrong buttons at once, green-screening it.
PC? 3 Headcrashes, 1 erroneous partition deletion, hosed soundcard due to a misplaced foot, 1 CPU (from my second machine) with bent pins; I won't even go into what damage one can accidentally cause by shorting a USB port.

Now, to add to the list of victims of my thoughtlessness, clumsiness, and blind bad luck, the memory card for my PS2.

It'll seem silly of course, and I am aware of it; but anything you put time into, starts meaning something, if nothing else then the time put in it.

It appears that my memory card has begun acting up, and the result is that the data file containing the evidence of the hours I've poured into as mindless a game as Tekken 5, are gone. Corrupted, and thus not possible to save. I've had to overwrite it, and start from scratch.

Yes; I know that it's probably one of the least relevant things to anyone else, it's just...well, fuck. I don't think it's healthy to be reminded of the hours I've spent (I won't say wasted, since I have had a load of fun!) on it; bam! Gone.

It's still the first time I've heard of a memory card that selectively corrupted; everything else on the card seems to be working, except for the one data slot that held the most time invested.

Maybe I should start wearing anti-static gloves whenever handling electronic devices; just as Midas of the stories had to wear gloves. I just don't really have a gold touch; entropic touch does sound a lot more intimidating, and, well, me for that matter.

Now, to begin all over with Tekken. I foresee many a sore thumb and frustrated shouts when I lose matches.
It's going to take a while, and probably a lot of cigarettes and beer, too. Now, onwards!

I love the rain...It helps me think

Fear, and panic in the air
I want to be free
From desolation and despair
And I feel like everything I sow
Is being swept away
Well I refuse to let you go

I can't get it right
Get it right
Since I met you

Loneliness be over
When will this
Loneliness be over?

Life, will flash before my eyes
So scattered and lost
I want to touch the other side
And no one thinks they are to blame
Why can't we see
When we bleed, we bleed the same

I can't get it right
Get it right
Since I met you

Loneliness be over
When will this
Loneliness be over?

Loneliness be over
When will this
Loneliness be over?

~Muse: Map Of The Problematique


Well, fuck. I wasn't intending to write anything, certainly nothing of substance; but it seems that the vain need of at least 4 hours of sleep has to take a back seat, to angst, wet & cold socks and selective reality, altogether.

So, I went drinking. For a change. It does seem to marginally define my everyday, at least for the point that I should be saving this for something, but somewhere else than home seems easier to be at right, for no other point that simple feelings. One might point out, that I am not at all stoic. Fortunately, as it is, I have no one to either need to impress nor live up to.

So, I went drinking with a colleague. The trip ended up at a place called The Moose, a location I've previously frequented; usually a hangout for post-highschoolers and easy targets for table football.

I got drunk, for a change. At times I think I drink to either hide, or forget, the proverbial slippery slope, I guess, but again, I feel previous little to either live up to or to make happy. Self included, of course, otherwise this would not be a proper desolation post.


You know how, in video fighting games, the characters often have a desperation move?

Up, up, down, down, left right, left right, B, A, Start.

Boom.

{Insert flashy CGIs and devastating damage}

...Boom?

As it goes, while at the Moose, not only was I reminded of certain vital things, I also ended up incidentally hearing a certain Muse track: Map Of The Problematique. Hence the italicized text at the top. I felt it'd add a certain panache, although certain individuals might label it as emo.

Out of a sudden, it all feels entirely not bearable. That twitch on the edge as you're balancing it all; just half a heartbeat short of staggering and stumbling.

Fuck it; for some reason I feel like I've just thrown it all on the floor, and seen it go to pieces - I am not even sure how it'll feel in the morning, but in some bizarre way I hope I'll remember this feeling; because at the moment it feels awfully more honest than most I've let myself feel for a while.

I'd add a boo-hoo for myself when I read this, like a post-it note to one self, for later reading when you remember what you wrote. Like that note you wish you wrote to yourself about a dream when you woke up late at night, and never could remember afterwards.

So. Fucking. Futile.

I can't get it right.
Get it right.
Since I met you.

Most definately time for the desperation move.

Cold, sogged from rain, and slight panic at the notion that I won't make it to work in anything resembling a normal work schedule...But then, who's counting, especially considering that I don't have any expectations to meet, barring the fact that I have a fucking trophy reminding me that I have been the quarterly employeee. Good on me. I'll be there, when I'll be there. No sooner.

Unfortunately, that goes for about it all. Perpetual standby.

...Someone, please turn me back on. There's too much inside going to waste, waiting and anticipating; it's no use like this.


...So it ends on yet another sob-story, and me (rightfully) blaming myself for failing to make the changes I'd hope to see. Ain't that a change, at that.

I love the rain. It helps me think."
~Sin City

It needs to rain a lot more. I'm not nearly done yet.

Long way to fall from the skies

{melodramatic}
The past week has seen me at both ends of the spectrum; from the brief, dizzying heights of elation, to the proverbial gravel pits of frustration, ending back at the bland realities of normalcy. {/melodramatic}

While I've now been staring, spitefully at the above sentence for the better part of ten minutes, trying to find some marginally more elegant way of saying it, I've failed gruesomly at that; and in protest, I've taken to capping it with the {melodramatic} tags. Take that.

As you're no doubt aware, I work for an ISP, doing technical support. Well, not entirely, as it is; I work for a company who handles outsourcing for other companies. How it becomes economically viable, I have no idea, but apparantly it works. The reason I say I work for an ISP, is because I feel more connected to that, than the company that actually pays me - it's a lot easier to identify with an employer whose company name hasen't changed 4 times inside 18 months. No, I am not kidding.
From Excellent, to Excellent-Tradimus, to Tradimus, and now to Aditro. Fuck's sake. Fusions may look good on paper, and probably on the stock exchange as well, but for the average working joe, it does fuck all apart from the technical difficulties of redoing mailsignatures and addresses.

Anyways;

About a month ago, our Operations Manager forwarded a mail to me; he had suggested me as a candidate for the employee of the quarter. That is, quarter of a year. Quarterly employee? Whatever.

I had pretty much forgotten all about it, largely as I didn't really see it happening. Doesn't matter that I do acknowledge I've done some passably well-performed work, but crux is that I have long hair, wear black clothes, and generally make the higher-ups look weirdly at me whenever fate leads them through our department.

So, waking up monday, and realizing that I had grossly overslept, didn't bode well for the 3rd out of 7 workdays in a row. 14.25 read the alarm clock, and apart from me having trouble catching my breath (yet another riveting dream), I held no concept of a day worth writing home about.
Called in, apologized for being late, and promised them I'd be over as soon as possible.
At 15.05, I clocked in.
At 15.10, one of out TeamLeaders walked over and told me we'd be having a kickoff shortly. A kickoff is basically a 5 minute heads up on the situation at work, usually in the case of focus subjects or specific challenges (I guess I should love the fact that 'challenges' is the positive form of "oh fuck, we're half-staffed all week, and all gateways have just choked!", but I digress);

Well.

In walks the HR-director, a kindly, but strict man with protruding ears and a red tie. Smiling.

This can't be good...

But it was.

After a few minutes of introductionary speech, he proceeded to tell the gathered department that the quarterly employee was indeed to be found amongst us. And that someone was me.

Out of the ~500 people in the building, 400 are neither staff, HR or teamleaders. Out of 400 employees, I appeared to be the chosen one. Go me. Having all your colleagues clap, as you're being praised is definately one of the more memorable things.

Of course, the irony is, that on that very day, they had planned for the award-thing for just after 14, where I was indeed expected to meet. I managed to, unintentionally, oversleep my own award; and thereby forcing our HR-director to go on standby for a bit over an hour.

I told you, I'm the resident rockstar of the support. Hardcore to the bone. Etc etc.

So, what's in it for me?

First off, glory everlasting, and whatnot. And a paid day off, which is nice. Couple of cinema tickets with soda, popcorn and whatnot tossed in as well. A basket filled with weird stuff, ranging from some obscure wine, balsamico, and mustard of some exotic origin that I can't place; as well as a plethora of other strange things.
And a trophy.

Before I get all misty-eyed and start thanking my colleagues and stuff, I could, with usual flair and panache, point out that Balsamico holds no interest to me, mustard I care little for, and the trophy's base was splintered to a degree where I could hardly lug it back to my seat.
Story of my life, I guess; "Here, have a trophy to show how awesome you are. Oh yah, be careful with it, the base is broken."

But well, it did make the day quite a bit different than I had expected.

And from the dizzying heights...

You see, I had forgotten my cell phone at home that morning. After work, unsurprisingly, I ended up drinking to celebrate my new title. Came home moderately intoxicated, and forgot all about my cellphone. Next day, I failed to find it before heading to work. After work, I could find it. Even better, the net at home died. With no cellphone, and no internet, one suddenly feels very cut off from reality. The neccesity of communication is evident at such times. You don't need to use it, but you need to have it.

Luckily, a few days later, my flatmate, when asked if he had seen my cellphone, told me he had found it in the bathroom a few days earlier, and had put it next to his computer in his room. No frickin' wonder I didn't find it - I did manage to completely overturn my room (compounding the mess), and sweep through the living room, which was at the time only lighted by a lava lamp, a TV and my two monitors, as the lightbulb in the living room, when last attempted switched on, knocked the power in the apartment. Not as much fun as it sounds, and reading it, it doesn't even sound that much fun.

Well, coming to a grinding halt here at the last moments of the weekend, the net is back, light is on in the living room again, and I have my cellphone. A return to normalcy, in all its bland lack of glory.
Tomorrow starts a new week for me, although it's only three days of work before two days off again; and the cycle begins anew.

Something's got to give. And something's got to change. This everyday doesn't really do it for me...Although I could reason that it's preferrable to being offline, lost in the darkness of a living room with no lighting, and lacking both cigarettes and a cellphone. Some existential gratitude might serve me well, alongside a slice of the ol' humble pie. Until then, though, I'll remain defiant. Hah.

Grey dawn, sparkling dreams, and the beginning of a goodbye?

So, yeah. Life's looking to do the good old curveball once again.

Work looks stranger than ever, with teamleaders being hot-swapped like, well, something that gets hotswapped a lot. Feel free to supply your own metaphor for it. It leaves very little room for stability, and it looks like two departments will be merged together, due to the departing of our departments' Operations Manager. In short, it means that the plans, sketches and projects I've had underway with the current OM are pretty much dead in the water; given that our soon-to-be OM alledgedly is a corporate hardliner with little time and inclination for creative, efficiency-improving ideas. Scrapping over 10 hours total of various projects isn't something I'm particularly fond of, not to mention that I have particularly little faith in the merger. That, and not to forget that the company's just changed name *again*. This brings it up to, by my count, the 4th time since I started in march last year. Ugh.

Well, that's what that is. Work's work, and while it's easy to wish for different circumstances, I don't have the influence to affect the outcome...yet, anyway. Here's to hoping it'll pan out reasonably.

More influential on my sleep and waking hours, though, is a long talk I had with my girlfriend recently. I've, for a while, had my thoughts on what the deal really was on the emotions involved. It didn't really fit inside any of the known boxes, which has been gnawing somewhat at me. I'm pretty good at thinking myself into deadends, so often I deliberately try to stop thinking, because I might end up creating entirely unrealistic situations. Well, I had decided to get the thoughts out of my head and on to the table - and so it happened, although not at all in the manner I had expected.

We were talking, one evening, and the topic came to fall on the future. Not ours in particular, but more of a generic discussion. That's when she said something I haden't seen coming.

She told me, half-way jokingly, that in the future, that she saw me living in a glass-and-steel, high-tech apartment, with a bisexual, industrial/gabber listening, EVE-playing girlfriend.

From the outside, it sounds like a fairly innocent comment, highlighting the things I enjoy in life - said in jest, except that she's neither bisexual, nor does she listen to gabber and industrial, nor does she play EVE. Nor is any of those things likely to change.

She asked me where I saw her in the future, and I answered her truthfully. I saw her living in a cottage, or a farm, with her children, in the neck of the woods, waiting for her viking-looking, neofolk listening husband to return home.

Suffice it to say, I may be a good deal of things, but I'm neither viking, into neofolk, nor am I likely to wish to be a father in any foreseeable future, if ever.

After we'd both said our piece, the joke, if there was really one to begin with, had stifled the smiles. Then followed a minute or so, of us just sitting there, looking at each other with new eyes.

...And that's how it began. We talked for the better part of the night, talked about what we actually felt, not that we haden't done so before - in fact, we have always been very open in our communications, but there's always seemed to be some things that just didn't come up naturally. I once told her that I was a little worried that she might become dependant on me, in that while I might be occasionally bleak and weary, she takes medication to help safeguard her against panic anxiety. That I was worried that she'd place too much faith in me and see me as a saviour, rather than her boyfriend. Dependance in a relationship can ever so easily kill the emotions that set romantic love apart from its more platonic form.
I told her how deeply I cared for her, which is true. I told her about all I've been thinking about, wondering and doubting and worrying about. And she looked me straight in the eye, and told her about her own thoughts. And her story was surprisingly similar to mine.

I felt odd, at the time. Anxious to finally set words to the feelings, uncertain as where this would end up. I felt like standing on a theatre stage, waiting for the curtain to rise. Just on the brink of seeing something entirely new. I felt melancholy, as if the words were the beginning of a goodbye, a mild pang of sadness inside for the good times. And I felt ready to face it. Honestly admitting that one's feelings aren't entirely befitting neither friendship nor a relationship is upsetting in a way, but I was able to look her in the eyes and say it, and feeling the elation of finally putting words to the thoughts that had been clouding my head.

Nothing was definitively ended, no doors were shut closed, but the emotions were set into action.
Horrible clichés were said, but in the first light of the sunrise outside, they didn't feel like clichés at all. There's a reason, after all, that clichés become just that; it's because so many say them, meaning them as they say it.

I told her about the devotion I felt, something I once thought was inexorably bound to the caring you'd only feel in a relationship. I told her of how I, a few years back, learned that one can indeed care that much for someone without being in a relationship with them. I told her of one of my closest friends, who once pulled me, all the way back from the bottom, with a dedication that I thought a friend could not possess.

There was a significant amount of tears that night and morning, but they weren't heart-wracking sobs and wails. They just flowed, quietly, constantly, caused by the gravity of emotions worded. Like some people sometimes wake up, tearful after dreaming, not of something immensely sad or frightening, but simply because what you dreamt was so beautiful, so serene and perfect, that you can't react any other way.

I've felt strange since then. Not bad, but restless. I find that I wake many times each night, but it's not nightmares. But I wake up feeling the same melancholy I felt that night. It feels as if I, every night, say goodbye.

But for the first time since I can remember, I wake up knowing that the words aren't just in my head. I've said them, given them life and reality.

Time will give me answers and serenity; and while I might not fully understand my emotions, or what form they take, and what direction they are going, I am glad that I had the courage to say them to one I claim to care deeply for.

All relations are temporary correlation of life paths. You meet, you find that, for an indefinate amount of time, your paths in life go parralel, so you walk a path seemingly made just for you, alongside someone else. But one day, you find that your paths part, and if you want to follow your own way, you may have to say goodbye to the one you've been walking through life next to.

Maybe one day, you'll find you're walking the same way again, meeting someone you once shared life with. Maybe you won't. Maybe you'll meet again, and remember the good things you had. Maybe you'll only remember the bad.
The only thing certain is that if you stop on the path, you'll never know if you one day were to meet them again, further down the road. That's why we go on...to see whose paths we'll cross one day.

Dead yet? Nah. Not that easy.

For some odd reason, I wonder why, it appears that I open any blog with an excuse that I haven't written for a long time. Good thing I know that no lives, souls or worlds are shattered by my absence on this particular scene.

I was about to open this with "funny how real life gets in the way of writing here", and realized I've already written that on a previous occasion; sucks to have a limited amount of excuses. Boe hoe, as an old online aquaintance would have said. Course, he was belgian, and I'd regard anything a belgian say with a healthy amount of regard - I mean, the waffles are cool, but most anything else coming from Belgium is dubious at the least.

On to the show, and enough with the sidekicks.

If you could see me right now, you'd notice that I'm halfway split between rubbing my temples, and actually writing this stuff. I could write about how I bought a new keyboard, and I'd feel totally disinterested myself; I could write about how my hair color's changed, or how job seems to be perking up in ways I had never anticipated. Hell, I could even write about how I seem to be attracting a certain flair for both deception in games, and how I've written documentation for work that'd make a professional consultant piss his pants in envy;

Neither of it really moves my world. I just keep a straight face, and march onwards. If I'm arrogant enough to think that I can decieve myself (and I am, most of the time), then I can be arrogant enough to think I can keep a mask on for nigh-on most of the time towards anyone else. The irony of delivering myself on a silver platter, online, is not lost to me, but hey - I might have been born in analogue, but I was baptised in digital...I see no better place than here to wonder.

It's awkward, yet not, because I know the chances of anyone reading this are about limited to (most) anyone I know online. Nearly no one I'd need to look in the eyes, knowing that they know what I've been saying here, pretending it's not been stated.

I've been trying to run from it, I realise. I've been trying to cover it up, like a person would cover up a blemish, wear a turtleneck to cover hickeys, or riding a flashy car to hide the lack of bulge in their pants.

I'm ashamed of myself. It seems to damn easy to say on text, and assuming anyone reads this, it means that I didn't buckle and delete the whole thing and go to bed.

I'm not what I should be, I'm not making what I should of what I have. Time's wasting, and I'm cruising along on autopilot. From time to time I rant about this, because I find it more cathartic to kick myself for my lack of personal progress, rather than the fact that I'm probably running my body into (and a select few feet under) the ground within a few decades.

And I keep returning to that question: Why? Why do I need to sit here, about 7 hours until I have to *be* at work, and ponder this, when I should do so when fully awake and coherent?

It's simple; I'm more self-aware when the lights go out. They say beauty is but a lightswitch away, and while being conceited enough to know that I am not physically unattractive, I feel emotionally repugnant. No one wants a broken body, even less want a broken psyche (bear in mind, I *did* avoid the "no one wants a broken heart cliché here - do I get bonus points?).

http://www.lyricstime.com/apollo-440-pain-in-any-language-lyrics.html

Listening to it right now; Apollo 440 - Pain in any language. I find myself, when I should be soaring upwards and making the most of what I have, to be stuck in regret. Again.



I fundamentally believe that for any meaningful relationship (friendship or romantic), that there are three levels;

Intellectual;

Emotional;

Sexual;

Of course, between friends, the latter is rather dubious, but here's my take on it:

For a good aquaintance, you need at least 1 of the three to make it mean anything.

For a close friend, you need two, otherwise it's not that close. While you can be okay friends with someone, if it's only intellectual or emotional, it's still not a close friend. If you fundamentally despise the person for lack of intellect (and we do always look down, don't we?), but value their emotional support, it's not a friendship - then it's a simple case of utilitarism.

...And for a relationship to be something that you'll not only remember, but will change you, you'll need all three. Two of them, and it descends into either friendship, or a fuckbuddy relation, and the plummet begins.

I find myself, once again, at the threshold; evaluating what means something around me, I find that there's a reason that I haven't told my girlfriend, in a long time, that I love her - simply because I'd (even subconsciously) rather not tell a lie, and hurt, than to tell a lie and live with it.

I think they got it right, when the protagonist in the film 300 told the traitor: "I hope you live forever." After all, at the end of the day, you're the one that has to live with yourself. Everything else is just flavortalk.

And that's what it all comes down to. There are things I'll have to tell, look someone I deeply care for into the eyes, and tell them what I feel, and don't, and I'll need to take the fall for it afterwards, simply because I won't lie anymore. I've done enough of it, I've seen people I loved break down from it, I won't do it any more.

I dreamt last night, about as cliché as it gets, that I was standing on the Copenhagen central plaza. Around me were people I knew, and I saw their faces looking at me in wonder. I dreamt that wings unfolded behind me, and feathers littered the ground as I took off. I remember the vague feeling of melancholy of leaving something I cared for, but soaring towards the sun like an Icarus prior to the fall, the sun beckoned, and smiled. In that dream, I knew that towards the sun was what I once had felt, the taste bittersweet on my tongue and in my veins, and while the pull on my heart's strings was palpatable, I rose, because I knew that the joy ahead would justify it. I remember muttering the words "If you love me, you'd want to see me smile." as the sun shone brighter than ever;

and I opened my eyes.

Reality's light was not bright enough to bask in, its shadows not dark enough to hide in; its reality ultimately unyielding to my dreams.

But, sitting here now, looking out the window, the sun's rising, and its light is radiant. The sun's reflecting on the windows across the street in a reddish hue, and for once, I take strength from the sun.

*chuckles*

Reading back on the past few paragraphs, I don't fully remember writing them, but my mother once told me that when I was writing, or making music, that I seemed almost glowing. I'm certain she was exaggerating, as is any parent, but I can't help to think that we all have a gift for doing something; and when doing it, we glow from the inside.

My glows just tend to go like fireworks these days, largely because there is nothing to tend to the flame; no one can eternally keep their own flame burning. We keep it on a wake-flame, waiting for a justification to flare up, and shine on the world. We all hope that our flame will warm ourselves, and the most of idealistic hope their flame will warm, and guide the path for others.

Is there any more beautiful way to become blind, than by the luminescence of a shining day star?

It...hurts to do this emotional rollercoaster, and I get reminded of whby I rarely write. I once had, if not a future ahead of me as a writer, but at least the prospect of becoming a reasonable prose productionist; I found, as I learned the sharp edges of life, that if you get too involved in what you write, you start feeling it on yourself. I do so now; projecting myself onto a virtual avatar of myself, writing late, writing drunk, to pretend that this here is not me. It is, and that is why any post that's worth spending the morning awake for, is worth feeling for me.

Me me me me me. As they say, the concept of weblog is egoism, after all, did we not take the 'we' out of weblog? (Yes, the accurate reader will spot that as a rip-off from userfriendly.org)

Anyone who reads blogs do so because they want a free in on someone else's life. I read other's blogs, and I sympathize. If they write well, I'll even drop my grammer fascist mask and read it with an open mind.

If they write something that touches me, I'd bleed with them if it came to that, as long as I am in front of the screen.

And that will be one of my last points; as long as we're in front of the screen.

Blogs are for pouring out one's heart onto the net, wrapped in ironic distance so that no one ever gets too close. Write something while your tears are blurring your vision, and you'll be lucky to get a "That really sucks, man" response. Behind the screen, we're all safe, snug, and immortally anonymous.

Fuck that. Over the past week+, some thinga have been set into motion for me. What I once thought was safely hidden away, far from my mind, has come to surface. I've nearly spayed myself trying to fit in, and pretending to be comfortable. That's not going to work. I'm not normal, so why bother trying to be it.

I owe almost all to a few, a little to many, and the rest deserves a twisted smile, nothing more.

I'm not going to stick to life with 2 out of 3.

And unlike Nietzche, I refuse to spend my entire life mourning over the inability to change my life. I've been blessed, I'll shine, and I will forge a path where there is none. I'll stumble, fall, curse and cry, I'll wish I was dead at times, wish others were dead moreso, I'll wish I chose a different way, but in the end, on my tombstone, I don't want the words "If only he'd had the courage..." to be written on it.

After all, we'll all stumble and get dirt on our hands, but in the low light of candles, we admire each other's scars.

You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly

Still as true as when I read it the first time.

Broken, bloodied, Bacardi bottle

Things tend to pile up, and I try to get them out of my head in due time, but that time seems somewhat lacking. This will be a bit of a rehash of some things that have been crossing my mind over the past week, get some perspective on things.

Possibly the thing that's left me with the most sadness and disgust over the world recently happened late last week.

I had been out drinking with two colleagues, had a rather good evening so far. After going to a few bars (and finding them all crowded beyond the point where entering the bar would be possible), we decide to wander around for a while. Still pleasantly drunk, but also increasingly tired, we were looking for that last stop place for a few beers and calling it a night. Doing so, we passed Copenhagen's courthouse. It lies around fifty meters from a plaza, bustling with people, impressive architecture that really does give one the feeling of being small. The front pylons somewhat obscuring the stairs up to those heavy, wooden doors. The entrance gives the impression of an alcove, which adds to the overall feeling.

Walking past it, we halfway noticed three men arguing inside the alcove, but being tired and drunk, we didn't notice immediately. We managed to walk about ten-fifteen meters past before we realized they weren't arguing as such. Two of the guys were assaulting the last guy.

I remember us walking slower, and eventually stopping to turn around, trying to find out what to do; making decisions while drunk goes a bit slower, and when faced with violence, most of us hesitate.

I've always thought I was strong enough in my conviction to do the right thing, and I still try to be, but it was hard to actually do anything. Violence in films can be awesome, coreographed to beauty, impressive and touching, but violence in reality is ugly, brutal and frightening.

Time stretched, so I reckon it can't have been more than perhaps ten seconds before we actually walked back, but it felt like a long time.

The two assaulters noticed us, and evidently tried to decide what to do. One of them grabbed the shoulder of his friend, and yelled "are you trying to roll him?!", or something similar to that, and the other guy seemed to shake off his bloodlust somewhat, and they lurched off.

The victim staggered to his feet, and began to lurch away. It didn't strike me until afterwards that perhaps he was afraid of us, that we would continue the beating of him.

It was a homeless guy, judging by the looks of him, and in the alcove, we found empty beer bottles...and a broken Bacardi Breezer bottle. With a smear of blood on its side, which was the perfect explanation for the pool of blood that was seeping down the stairs of the courthouse. The bastards had not just set themselves content with beating up on a homeless man, whose only crime was simply to not have run away fast enough, in fact I wouldn't at all be surprised if he was asleep when they accosted him; they had also decided to crack a bottle on his head. When he staggered away from us, he was holding his head, and slipping from side to side.

In some way, that Bacardi Breezer bottle embodied the epitome of excess and decadence, the drink of rich kids, the "have-all" type of people who wear designer clothes that costs enough to feed a homeless for a month, and they decided to use it on a guy, whose life is hard enough already. It makes me sick.

Two assaulters.
One victim.
No chance.

I remember that when I came home that night, and thought about it, it did make me cry. Not because of the unpleasantness of the situation, but more from the sheer amount of insult to my sense of justice this was; beating on a hobo, on the steps to the courthouse, I don't think it could have been a more pathetic show of what's happening around us.

And I felt awful about the knowledge that if we had come by merely a minute earlier, it wouldn't have happened. If we haden't stopped at a bar earlier, or haden't spent a minute discussing where to go next, hell, even if we had just walked a bit faster, there wouldn't have been that god-damn broken Bacardi Breezer bottle staring at me with blood on it.

I should have reacted faster, more decisively, but I hesitated. Drunkeness can only account for so much. Even so, to justify it all, I tell myself that at least we prevented them from really going to town on him, and possibly beating him into a coma. That us showing up prevented things from getting even worse...But I still can't shake the feeling that I could have done more, and better.

...Still can't shake the feeling that I didn't live up to the obligation of doing the right thing, and doing enough of it.

In some bizarre way, I hope I'll get the chance to do it right another time, I don't wish to witness violence, but I do hope that I get a chance to redeem myself in that way, to do the *right* thing and knowing it was what was needed, to save someone. If I can't save a person's soul - which I have learned, painfully - then at least I can perhaps save their body. I've been given a conscience, the ability to know right from wrong, and the responsebility that comes with that, is to not hesitate to help another in need.

I just hope to do better another time.

Retrogradation 1/2

ret·ro·gra·da·tion Pronunciation[re-troh-grey-dey-shuhn] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
1.
backward movement.
2.
decline or deterioration.


Well, it's been a while since I've put to word my life here.

I'm sure it'll enjoy some of my beloved readers to know that I've been away longer than I probably should have, things have tended to whisker me away from the world of electronicae, unfortunately.

As it goes; we need to look back a few weeks, to when what I by now regard as a new chapter in my life started.

It all started with a hard disk head crash. By now, I've realized that apparantly I have a borderline unearthly ability to force my hard drives to die on me; I'm sure there could be written and wrought much speculation on these apparant powers; sadly I can't will them into existance, they apparantly only manifest themselves when physically most inconvenient, and moreover, only in a degree where complete hard drive death is certain.

It all started with the death of a hard drive that I of course had no fucking backup from - being this, the fourth headcrash I've had, one'd have fucking thought I'd have the care to make backups in due time. Not so, not least from my physical inability to do so. No secondary hard drive, no DVD burner. No easy out, and no solution. And obviously, no happy ending.

Well, so the disk died on me, which is, what, a week and a half ago. The first day was spent trying to ascertain the problem's extent, was it a fan making that weird noise? Nope. Smothered them, one by one, didn't stop the noise, and obviously the fact that my PC wasn't booting.
Loose S-ATA cable? Nope. Swapped that one for a new, no difference.
Ah! Unplugging the hard disk made the weird noise stop.

Oh, fuck.

From there on, it went downhill, as you may be able to tell.

That week was intended to be my week off from work (which it was), and a week of relaxation and gathering my senses (which it wasn't). The same evening (wednesday), I had a friend order 2 x 320 gig disks, to run in RAID-1 subsequently. For those not technologically inclined, it just means that one disk will constantly mirror the primary disk's data, meaning that in the case of a disk death (again), I should still have a backup disk...that I'd then swap for the primary disk, hoping that a replacement disk would get there in time to backup the backup.

Order goes out; 2 x 320 gig disks, a fan for the disks (to lower the temperature, hopefully extending their apparantly all too fragile lease on life in my hands), a DVD writer, and a proper headset (because god knows, I need proper sound...and fucking loud, too).

Final order comes down to;
320 gig disk x2
Disk fan x1
DVD writer x 1
Medusa 5.1 ProGamer USB headset x 1 (yeah, programer, cos I...like, uh, live off off internet gaming)

Ordered wednesday. ordered in time for them to ship it for the next day, so my hopes as high as my naïvety figured that I should have my box back up in 2 days, tops.

You know me well enough already, and given that I'm writing this, now, that obviously did not happen.

The next 6 days were spent trying to reach the sender, the danish postal service, blowing money on internet cafés, and alcohol when the burden of offline-ness became too strong. I managed to meet up with aquaintances and friends, loved ones and whatnot in the meanwhile. Outsiders might say it was good for me. Fuck them. I needed to be online, and no amount of enjoyable socializing would in the end substitute for it. Well, admitted, it did for periods of time, but getting home reminded me of what needed to be done. In particular due to my TV and PS2.

I don't think I've mentioned the special relationship I share with my TV and PS2.

No, it's nothing physical, you perverse bastards.

In short, about half a year ago, my TV started dieing on me. As death comes, it comes slowly and unobtrusively, letting you get used to the signs of its coming without noticing it.

First, the colors die, bit by bit. That is, periodically, my TV insists that it is indeed a black and white TV. It'll revert itself after some time, cursing, and complimentary baby offerings. Like I said, the passing of a venerable, but malevolent being. It demands sacrifices and frustration before it is sated to a level where it'll bestow upon me colors. Heretic motherfucker, one day that TV will end its days with a stake through its blackened&whitened heart. And I shall laugh. Until I recall that means no TV, no PS2.

PS2? Well, I might not have that one with me for as long as I would have liked. It's dieing. Like the TV. Like a fucking emo kid on livejournal. Bit by bit. Load time is exploding, disks accepted are dwindling. I won't get into why I actually care for the PS2, but leave it, I'd prefer it wasn't like this. Wishing for things being different, however, is the epitome of futility. It's slipping through my fingers, and no amount of neither screaming, beseeching or violence will turn it around. Fucking dieing on me.

So, I had a PC that was. I have a TV that's slipping away. And a PS2 that, irrespectively of the TV, may or may not work. I am, beyond doubt, displaying my powers of the entropy touch. Just a fucking pity I only can do it on inanimate objects...of own possession. Fucking superpowers, never work entirely like intended.

Short of the long, or long of the short, whichever you prefer, in the end I got things reinstated, working, and now I'm just waiting for something else to die, that's within my reach. I thank whatever god may or may not be listening for the fact that this power only extends to inanimage objects, and myself. Least, that way, I'll be able to keep it inside. Just like the rest.

So yah. I'm online from home, music playing (suitably loud), beer at ready (suitably cold), cigarettes inside reach (suitable...cigarette'ish?). And writing. Suitably...moody?

This was part one. All the technicals. I think I, mostly, managed to keep emotions out of this. I'll amend for that in what is to follow.

Heroes...Who needs God when you've got me?

It happens rarely, that something truly sweeps my legs away under me; my jabs about how I feel jaded may even have some truth to them. Usually, if it happens, it's something life-changing, an entirely new outlook on life or similar, but apparantly, less can suffice.

A few days ago, I was introduced to a series. TV-series of all things, something I've never had any realy interest in. I considered tv-series the pacifier for the dimwitted, which I admit is a rather unwarranted attitude.

The series was called Heroes. 15 episodes of each 45 minutes, give or take. I've chomped through all 15 now. Record speed at that, but then again I never was good at limiting myself once I found a new indulgence.

The series revolves around something that instantly reminded me of the game settings Aberrant; normal people who discover they are developing supernatural powers, and struggling to come to terms with it. From the empathic cop, to the super-regenerating cheerleader outcast, pretty much all aspects and walks of life. It could so easily, ever so easily have become shallow and trite, but instead something developed in this series. I admit I was both tired and marginally drunk when I saw the first three episodes, but even so I honestly felt it touched me, somehow. I came to care for the characters, care for the plot, appreciate the story I was being told.

It made me think of old role playing sessions, things I miss doing. Everyone should have the chance to be a hero at some point, if just for a few hours, or even minutes.

By comparison, I don't think my life qualifies as heroic. Today as an example; top achievement today was to buy an expensive electric shaver, and a mildly excessive amount of energy drinks I've recently fallen for. Hey, they're cheap, taste alright, and apart from that, they alledgedly contain both Guarana and caffeine. Score.

Not epic, though. I very much doubt I could pass the snot in my head off as epic, unless it started glowing - in which case I'd label it radioactive and try to sell it to terrorists or somesuch.

Returning to the matter at hand;

The title of this blog, the latter part is a quote from the series.

I rarely say this, and those who know me know it to be true, it's very rare that I find something that moves me enough to start trying to peddle it to others. Fundamentally, I think everyone should make their own choice to find things...but this is going to be the exception.

You have a chance to stumble upon Heroes, seize the chance. Stock up your fridge, lock the door, and immerse yourself into a world that's as fascinating and promising as it is grim and bleak at times.

It's a form of relief; I doubt anyone has not at several times wished they had special powers, and the ability to do right the things wronged...Doing the right thing, and dreaming of it seems to be an awfully reoccurring theme for me. Yay for reality escaping, I guess.

Valentine's day massacred

Ok ok, so it's no longer Valentine's day. Bite me.

It's a good example of something I once found endearing, romantic and a perfect day to reaffirm one's feelings. Before that, it was a day I found a source of immense loneliness, which may or may not have had something to do with me being single, angsty and teenager, but I digress.

I remember thinking that day was potentially better than both christmas, new year's and my birthday, all included - naturally, barring that one birthday that went horribly awry, but that's a story for another time.

Fuck. I keep sidetracking myself. Yay for lack of focus. I blame life in general, customer in specific, and anyone else than me in particular. That's the ticket, surely.

So, yeah. Valentine's day. Albeit that the very concept of it has been thoroughly reamed by corporate greed, it's a nice thought. Except, of course, for those that are alone on the day. For those, it's not really a lot of fun at all, unless they adopt either spite or ignorance. It's hardly fair, and god knows I'm sure there's a lot of people feeling pressured on the day, when affirmations of affection are no longer voluntary but mandatory, it kind of defeats the purpose...and with massive commercial hearts leaning on you from every side, it becomes something to struggle through, rather than revel in. My take is that our current brand of reality is simply too egoistic and rushed for this sort of thing to work. I mean, just look at what's happened to christmas.

I wonder if I've become too cynical for Valentine's day. Too old, too grizzled, like it's happened with christmas, that by now is just another chore to fulfill to a satisfying degree...whether it's because I simply will not let commercialism nutt in my mouth, and expect me to swallow, or if it's an earnest lack of emotion that dictates it for me.

I feel oddly defiant in the face of it. Maybe make a day dedicated to hating people would get my attention a bit better, and of course, I'd love to see the Colgate-smiles glaring from newspaper ads, not smiling but frowning, grinning, and wishing me a horrible day.

"Happy hatred day. May your face melt, your house burn down, and your significant other run off with your best friend, fucker. ps, fuck you thoroughly."
Whatever they'd sell me with that ad, I'd buy without hesitation.

Then again, it's a lot easier displaying negative emotions than positive ones. You're a lot less vulnerable that way. Maybe that's another reason for my Valentine's day scepticism. I don't feel like letting complete strangers see me smile. I dunno if it's because I think they haven't earned it, or because it leaves them knowing I have something to lose (whether or not I actually do). It's not only more natural, but also seems more gratifying to just grin and cok my eyebrow. Fuck'em, let them earn the right to see me smile if they want it.

So yeah. Valentine's day. What of it?
it's like an extra twist of the knife, ending a phone conversation, an email, or a text message with "Happy Valentine's day".

I don't believe in new year's resolves, for the same reason; you want to do something right and good, you don't need a fricking' title for a day to do so. Turn of a year? Who cares. Any actions, change or whatever needs to come from genuine motivation.

Moving further from the point, isn't there something fundamentally wrong when you need to know what day it is to promise yourself or others to be a better person?

Then again, I stop and wonder again, maybe it's not the commercialism, and maybe it's not even me being too jaded for it. After all, if I didn't care at all, why the hell would I spend time writing about it? Maybe I just lack a proper conduit. Perhaps that'd make it more obvious.

Ahwell. Until I figure things out better, I'll just praise myself happy that Valentine's day has been utterly sliced up from my side anyway. I guess I can put away the heart-shaped scalpel away now, and feel all good about myself. I've done my share.

Screw you, Valentine's day. You're nothing but memories coated in commercialism anyway.

Fuelled by hatred, desire, curiosity and dreams

I really wasn't going to post tonight. Mainly, to be honest, because I had no real inspiration to write.

Fortunately, when inspiration fails, others step in and incidentally say something that makes you think in new, decaying orbits of thoughts.

And here I find myself looking back again on things in the past. This time, fortunately, it's with a mildly content grin, and a slight shrug.

All people are driven by only a few elements, anything else is just icing on the cake, at least from my perspective. It can be an ideal, an emotion, and assuming mental instability, I'm sure it can be the invisible martian lodged in your brain, too.

Years ago, I was fuelled by bitterness and hatred. Ultimately stemming from not liking myself, or what I had achieved, I projected it onto life, wishing misery on my fellow humans. Not to a degree where I'd actually cause noticeable damage, mailing nailbombs to random people or whatever, but simply wishing loss and sorrow for others.

It's natural, when you feel at a loss, and no seeming way out, you eventually channel it out at whatever gets in the way.

For me, I had an outlook on life that'd make Nietzche hide behind his moustache, and Voltaire make warding-off gestures. Lord of the dusk, mister acidity himself. It didn't make me feel better, but at least it justified my wishing ill on others, after all, what had life really done for me?

Such hubris tends to cause divine intervention, sooner or later I'm sure whatever powers-that-be would have stuck a lighting bolt down my throat, and had me raped by a rabid badger clown wearing a sandpaper condom; so I reckon my luck was that things changed for me.

I just come to think about how it was to be purely fuelled by hatred.

I've never done cocaine, but I guess this was as close to it as I'll get without doing the powder myself.

It's bad for you, and you know it, deep down...but it's so powerful, like fire instead of blood. If you listen closely, you can hear the blood rushing through your veins, and when you're high on hatred, you can feel the power of it coursing through you. It's intoxicating, all while it's disintegrating you, bit by bit. Emotions go first, sanity follows.

Like nitrous gasoline in the tank.

Fortunately for me, I learned there are other things to fuel one's drive in life. Ever since then, though, once I realized how I was running myself into a dead end, I've caught myself thinking even more of the inspiration for anyone I talk to for an amount of time. Is their goal money? Power? Love? Hate?

If you can discern what single word drives a person, you already know a lot about them, what you do with that knowledge is something different entirely.

I still feel disdain, I'm still arrogant as fuck, my most used facial expression is that of a cocked eyebrow and nothing else, but I'm better for having learned to find other fuel methods. Life is richer when you're no longer seeing things in monochromatic.

There was a point to all this at a point, but at the moment the best thing I can think of is how it relates to my (lack of) experience with drugs. Drugs, man. I should have done them properly when I was younger, crash and burn and then return to life stronger for the experience. I hate it when people talk about their journeys through mind-expanding chemicals, and I catch myself momentarily thinking "I really should get around to trying it at some point", before realizing I don't really want to do so anymore. Some things aren't meant to be pick-up elements to your life, but solely added on top of something already good, and while my life, surprisingly enough is good, I don't think it's good enough to be able to bear me waltzing around, white powder and blood pouring from my nose. Nor do I actually think my life would be better for it.

So contradictory, I know. I want to have done it, so I actually could know how it feels, but I donn't want to try something that may change my life so drastically for so little gain.

I'm an addictive nature, as in how I respond to stimuli, and considering the cigarettes next to my keyboard, I don't think I'd need another addiction.

It's the lure of drugs, the easy way out to keep the sharp edge, to make the bright lights brighter, or the comforting darkness softer. It's a lack of self-control for so many, who need the stimulants to reach the peaks they so crave, but who am I to judge them? I don't, I just go down a different path...and we all know how tempting the other path always seems.

Clipped Wings;
Fuelled by hatred™
Fuelled by desire™
Fuelled by curiosity™
Fuelled by dreams™
Fuelled for your pleasure©*

*Only for premium customers

The little things that make your day

All the problems make me wanna go
Like a bad girl straight to video

Little darling, welcome to the show
You're a failure played in stereo

No, above text really has nothing to do with the rest of this, just listening to Mindless Self Indulgence's 'Straight To Video'. Good stuff, that.

So this day has been strange. Strange, as in multiple incidents that, on their own, would have made me raise my eyebrow.

Okay, bad metaphor, since I seem to have a constant arrogant frown anyway.

So, here's what's up:

1) Work. My former teamleader (whom I've had since I started at my job mack in march) quit in end january, to move to Australia. It's a pity, since I honestly respected him. Sure, he might have been marginally influenced by the weed he homegrew, but honestly I always considered him the example that you can indeed smoke a reasonable amount of joints and still be sharp. Also, he was considerate and willing to find solutions to most any problem that might arise at work, from work schedules, to strange solutions to strange problems. Most of all, he cared for the people that worked under him.
The new teamleader I got, was an old friend of him, and initially I considered him the complete opposite. Streamlined, goal-oriented and utterly professional. I was wrong about him, which took less than a week to discover. He had almost the same traits as my former teamleader, except he smoked a good deal less weed. I had a talk with him today, from my side because I wanted to explain why I have some trouble meeting on time. Meeting at 2 in the afternoon doesn't help one bit if you're still not asleep at 8 AM, or have already woken up multiple times due to nightmares. He listened, thought, and came with suggestions. He cared, and wanted to help find a workable solution.

Moreoever, after having been teamleader for less than 3 weeks, he also told me that he's leaving the company at the end of the month. He's been offered a position in another company that he felt too good to pass up on. Naturally, he felt somewhat bad about having just taken over this job, and then leaving, but one has to do what's right for one self. I understand him, and wish him all well the new place.

And then he said something that I wasn't entirely prepared for;

"If I was in your situation, I would file an application for the position".

In truth, I want that position. I am not entirely certain if I'd be qualified for it, having had no formal management training, but he struck a nerve. I considered applying for the position when my former TL left us, but turned it down on the grounds that I wasn't sure what I actually wanted to do. I do now.

I'll need to mull over this for a while, because I'm worried how I'll react to the rejection in case I apply and get turned down. It's obviously not the end of the world, but it's easier to slack and set the goals low, because that way you don't get disappointed. Problem is, I've done that for a long time, emotionally as well. Maybe it's time for a change.

My qualities?

1) I know what I'm doing as it is now, so I know what to expect of those who'd work under me.
2) I wouldn't ask them to do something I know I couldn't. Easy, since pretty much anything we can get tossed in our face, I've already had happen, from Backbones tilting, gateways dieing horribly and mailservers discarding usernames + passwords.
3) I care for the workplace, and those working there.
4) It'd be one fuck of a PR-stunt from their side, to show that they encourage development and growith internally in the department. God, I'd feel nauseatingly good about being the poster child for the company *coughs*.
5) I have informal management experience from work, from several occasions where things simply were going to fall apart unless I intervened.

Cons:
1) No management diplomas.
2) Not sure whether leadership experience from EVE Online really counts that much, although I could point out that I have people skills.
3) It could be strange having colleagues that'd now take directions from me.
4) Morning shifts.
5) Would you be able to take directions from a guy with purple hair?

All in all, it's started a minor avalanche of thoughts in me. Would I be able to streamline and lead people I consider more than colleagues? I actually don't know. But admitting to myself, I want to find out how I'd handle it.

That was the first thing.

Second off; going for an after-work beer with one of my good colleagues, went to the local bar. Ran into some semi-colleagues that work on the Dell Dimension assignment. One of them, whom I periphally know (from having run into him a few times), greeted me as I walked in. My glasses were fogging a bit, so I looked around a little confused; for some reason he took this as a sign to jokingly say "Hey, don't look at me like you don't know me, we've run into each other enough times!". He sounded like he was joking when he said it.
Honestly, I only know what assignment he works on, never even heard the guy's name before, and looking through fogged glasses makes it pretty damn hard to discern anything but rough size and possibly gender of the person in front of you.
Picking up on the joke, I asked him to repeat what he said.

And that's when things took a turn for the strange.

Being confronted with what he said, although I honestly did not even stab it in his eye or sneer at him, I apparantly had mortally insulted him? He began inquiring as to why I thought he'd said that, and how he would never have said anything like that. The more he proclaimed, the more agitated and wounded he became. After about 30 seconds of rambling, he stated that if I indeed thought he had said that, then I had issues trusting people, since he would never say something like that. Odd thing is, the guy standing next to me (both of us sober, while the Dell guy was heavily inebriated) had also heard him saying it. I tried to tell him that it was indeed what I had heard, but I had thought he had meant it as a joke, which for some reason infuriated the guy even further. At this point I considered simply turning around and walking away, but stubbornness, and to some extent, annoyance that a sober person apparantly hears *worse* than a drunk-off-his-ass person does, made me force the issue and tell him that I did indeed hear him saying so, and that I had taken it as a joke.
This was the point where he began to look decidedly bitter and resentful, while mumbling through a sentence that I assume implied that I was a horrible person to even imply that he would judge people based on their looks...Where the hell he got that notion from, is beyond my reasoning. After a bit less than ten minutes of listening to him (while waiting for a beer), my patience was about worn out, and I intently turned away, ignored him and walked off to a nearby table.

I'm unsure as to whether I'm looking forward to seeing him at work on monday, or whether I hope he'll hide away from the abject nonsense he spouted.

Final straw: Sitting down at a table with my colleague, and setting up a dice game with some guy from the same building we work in. Nice guy with a white tie, no problems, but his colleague (whom I've blissfully never met) obviously had something to get off his mind. Staggering into the table, he started muttering about how he was going to get beaten up when he left the bar, and how we should follow him outside to help him. This guy looked like someone who got rejected for the casting of the "I must be Emo" video, and his rather whiny attitude made me want to toss my beer in his face and tell him to grow a pair and stop fucking whining.
Eventually, the tie-guy apparantly rejected this drunken excuse for an emo sufficiently, so emo-boy attempts to stand up, yells "you fucking owe me one, now I'm gonna get beat up outside!" and kicks a chair in towards the table.
Incidentally clipping my knee with it.

Not that it hurt significantly, but I was tempted to stand up and inform him that he wouldn't have to walk outside to get the snot kicked out of him.

God damn sufferjunkie.

Obviously, I have people skills. Especially how kindly I portray people when they annoy me even in the slightest.

And now? Off to bed, because in less than 7 hours, I'm going to be rising to greet the new day, and another glorious workshift. How fortunate I am.

What this world truly needs...

I've had this idea broiling around in my head for a while;

You know what the world needs?

Fuck online convenience stores that do to-door delivery.
Nevermind the online funeral home sites.

No. I've got it all figured out...

An online store. For emo kids wielding their parents' credit cards. Fuck yes.

Do you have any idea how much stuff I can peddle to these whiny brats?

Picture this:

First off, a classy name like www.darketernalabyssofdespair.com should be a hit. Might want to set up a redirect from something easier like www.uberemo.com or similar, too. After all, while its undoubtably very emo to lack the linguistic complexity of a poly-syllabilic domain name and fail even at that, dyslexic emos should have a chance at this, too.

Second, a design that instill hopelessness and despair. I'm thinking hospital palette here, folks; bleached bone, pastel green, and of course, an almost-black hue of red. (note, the green is just to cause mild nausea in the viewer...call it a minor payback for having to endure emos in the everyday).

Third, and this is where it gets good: What I'd sell.
Obviously, we must assume that any good emo wants music. And self-mutilation tools. Although I'd personally think that listening to bands like Good Charlotte, My Chemical Romance and Evanescence would be punishment enough, these little sufferjunkies need more. I'll give them more. CDs with all of the above, all claimed to be "secret unreleased B-sides". Delivered on self-printed CDs. Every single CD needs to be shattered, though. For self-mutilation purposes. Nothing spells fanboi/grrl as cutting one self with the shards of a CD thought to contain your favourite band's never released tracks. Naturally, this would only be enough for the play-cutters. For the serious ones, you know the ones who don't constantly blog about how they're going to kill themselves horribly, the deluxe item;
Rusty glass shards from a broken mirror.
Fuck yeah. Does it get more emo? I think not!

Also, to the shopping cart needs to be webcams. Shitty USB webcams that never work properly, and only show two colors; Black and some off-chromatic greyscale smudge. Locked at a compression that'd make Dali vomit. And hard-coded to only do 315 x 237 resolution.
I'll sell it under the slogan "I'm so goth, even my WEBCAM is non-conform!"

Also, we need some form of eyeliner that'll instantly cause the victim to cry blood. I'm still pondering whether flour with microscopic glass splinters would work better than mixing black dye with suplhuric acid.

Finally, I'm thinking of selling Absinthe. And by Absinthe, I mean green-flavoured window cleaning liquid. It might not make you drunk, but it'll make you just as sick as if you tried drinking the real stuff to impress your poser friends. The name "Killing Joke" springs to mind. Also, because I know the buyers wouldn't get it, as it refers to a band I don't think concurrent emo stars have (dis)covered and cashed in on. It's either that, or "Final Solution". I like that name as well, though. Maybe Soylent Fairy.

All of this should be promoted under the collection name of "These wounds/they will not heal/my suffering/eternal" or similar, so they can proudly display the set logo and claim that they invented that line, and that it's the epitome of dark poetry. Fuck Lord Byron and Poe, make way for xPunkGothSk8Grrl89x!

Of course, the page needs to have one of those guestbooks full of signings from people who don't exist, who claim that my online store has increased their penis/bust size, made them a major hit with their peers, and caused their parents to ground them for a year. 110% rebel. I'm angling for the grounded part to be the authenticity part on the site, in case you're wondering.

Now, you might ask yourself, as one potential investor asked me;
"But, how do I know that my substantial investment (of no less than a few thousand dollars) will not merely be squandered on absinthe, shrooms and hookers?"
That's actually a pretty damn good question. You don't. Apart from that I've yet to spend money on hookers, and I don't do shrooms. But as was pointed out, "if you have the two first, I think the third comes automatically."

In short, invest now! Help make the world better, one bleeding wrist at a time.

Also, I intend to pack, alongside any order, a step-by-step guide to successful /wrist action. I reckon that if you can't even figure out how to kill yourself through means of whatever I'm selling, you need all the help you can get.

...Did I mention I'm not that fond of emo subculture?