Stuck - Day 116


I got out of bed, let the dogs out to do their business, felt sad about Miss Wiggle's knee problem, fed them, then sat on the toilet and played with my phone.

Robb Wolf is one of the "leading" "experts" in the ways of Paleolithic eating. I'm subscribed to his mailing list. He sends about 3 emails a week, which has conditioned me to automatically delete just about everything that comes from him because I usually have no interest in wasting my time reading, for the eleventy billionth time, about how eating like our paleolithic ancestors will cure me of everything and pretty much make me immortal, or something. And also I'll probably never develop the fortitude or discipline or whatever to eat like that long term. But the email he sent this morning made me unsubscribe from his bullshit.

The email was titled something like, "Don't Miss Out On This!!" Then began with, "Don't kick yourself for missing this opportunity..." Right then, I knew the email was going to ask me for money so I could be a part of some consortium of "experts" who were going to teach me how I'm doing life wrong and how they're doing life right. I clicked the unsubscribe button and felt good about having one less thing in my inbox that I have to delete every day.

Then I got to thinking about how everything is scam. All of it, all the stuff and things. Everything is just a great big marketing pitch. Everything is one big lure that leads to some big funnel where everyone is trying to get permission to put their hand in your pocket. All of them, all the websites, all the emails, all the telephone calls, everything, the whole Earth. It's all an intricately designed scam to get you to shuffle money from your side of the table to theirs. The people who you believe are genuine, the "experts," are all liars. They don't have the cure, or the thing that's going to make your life easier, or the whatever other magic formula is going to rid the Earth of everything that ails it. They got nothing but a flimsy premise and a payment gateway.

I was close to throwing my phone in the toilet and flushing it down with the rest of the crap that came out of me. The crap I paid money for, that's destroying my body. But then I felt the need to get on Twitter and see what was happening. I can't live without that.


"Nature is awesome." That was a thought I had when thinking about the email the vet sent me, encouraging me to opt for the surgery because it's the only way to get my poor girl better. Here's that email in its entirety:

"Thanks for the update, Aaron.

I'm glad she's feeling a little better, but I wish she was putting more weight on that leg.  She likely has injured her knee ligaments more seriously than she did previously.  In that case, she is probably going to do best with a surgery.  

We can give her a other week and see what happens, but please let us know if you'd like us to get you to the surgery center sooner.

Gloria Johnson, DVM"

The pressure sales pitch is always an indication of a charlatan. It's the "best" option. Best for who? For me and my poor dog? My pocket will be a lot lighter and I'll still need to go through the whole rest and recovery phase, except she'll also have a horrific and painful wound on her leg to deal with. And there's no guarantee the surgery will "work" as good as conservative management long term. Scar tissue still needs to build up. She'll still have the possibility of re-injuring it, and even more so if she re-injures it while still recovering from the mutilation the vets want to do to her again.

Nature is awesome, and I'm confident that it will, in time, get her back to at least some level of normalcy. She may not ever be able to run and play again, but even with surgery, that's a high probability.

And I'm so mad that every vet is in it for the money and can't make any other recommendations or help in any way outside of, "get the expensive surgery so you'll be dependent on us for a while to make her better, which means you'll also give us more money in addition to the surgery, but fuck you if you think we will guarantee the surgery will work. Are you fucking crazy? We're vets, not miracle workers, except right before you give us the money we'll do our best to make you believe we are."


I laid on the couch all evening, worthless, like a slug that knows it's about to get salt poured on it. My body and mind seem to be resisting crafting a new routine, one that involves doing productive stuff in the evening. One that involves not laying on the couch watching sports that I have almost zero interest in. At least not laying on the couch doing nothing but watching the digital mens do sports things.

When I went to bed, I started thinking of what my next move should be. I really need to get back in the groove, especially in the morning routine. But I started thinking about what I should be doing, or what I need to be doing, and I couldn't come up with anything solid.

What I really WANT to do is get the Human Harvest podcast and musical project underway. I'd really like to spend some time every day, the same way I do writing, doing something musical and/or podcasty, but my mind seems unable to grasp how to squeeze it in to my busy schedule of sitting around playing Two Dots, laying on the couch watching sports, and mindlessly wandering around the house like an eight year old that can't find its mother.

I'd also really like to start an app project. I was thinking about creating a fantasy football lineup generator for daily fantasy leagues. The app would generate a bunch of potential lineups based on projected points and the player's cost. I thought of this yesterday while I spent the better part of an hour coming up with a lineup to use on Fan Duel. I've been wanting to do something in the fantasy football space for a while, a garage start up "disruptor," if you will, that is different than the traditional fantasy that's so popular on the big three sites (CBS Sportsline, Yahoo!, and ESPN). Maybe I'll kick this idea around a little the next week or so and see if I can get excited about it.

The Irony Of Being The Idioit Who Calls Everyone Else The Idiot - Day 115


The plumber had to come this morning because I'm an idiot. The faucets in the laundry room were leaking when I turned them on. I couldn't figure out how to turn them on so they wouldn't fucking leak. So the plumber comes, takes one look at them, then looks at me and says, "these old ones, you have to turn them on all the way." I said, "I thought I had turned them on all the way." He rolled his eyes, let out a "this fucking asshole" sigh, and tightened the things up then turned them on all the way. No leak. I felt shame.

With the washer now available to use, I filled it up and started a load. About 10 minutes later, I went to check if everything was working, and, no. There was a huge puddle of water in the laundry room, where all the water had leaked from somewhere. I don't know where. Fuck me.

So I gave up, took a shower, and went to work.


Every time we have a process meeting at the job, I go into meltdown mode. There's nothing more depressing than sitting in a meeting discussing how I, and everyone else, should be doing their work. I firmly believe that a one-size-fits-all process is used mainly to drive the average production of a group down to some baseline so that (mostly) mediocre talent can be used, because they're cheaper and much easier to control. But that's just me, what the fuck do I know?

I also can't help but think about that scene in Fight Club where Tyler Durden is sitting in the meeting with his boss and some generic salesman/businessman guy while holding in a mouthful of blood. His boss asks the salesman guy, "can I get the icon in corn flower blue?" That's what a process meeting feels like. Like, let's dive down into the minutiae of how things should be done so that we, as management types, can have a way to feel somewhat in control. Even if it's all an illusion, management needs to have some kind of metrics and measuring system to justify their existence. I mean, we as smart, capable individuals couldn't possibly be trusted to get shit done in a reasonable time frame without the constant threat of managerial consequences. Unfortunately, they're absolutely right, because most of the "talent" management types hire either sit right at the top of the bell curve or somewhere to the right of it and need all the managerial interference they can get.

But again, what the fuck do I know?


I decided to try and figure out where the washer was leaking, so I started another load. Again, like an idiot, I made the largest load possible, which means it uses the largest volume of water possible, which further means, if it leaks again, it'll make the biggest mess possible.

The washer starts the drain cycle and the drain pipe immediately fountains water out all over the place. I press the pause button on the washer and say to myself, "fucking shit hole." That was superfluous, you didn't need to know that.

And just to prove I'm an even bigger idiot than previously was thought, I decided to cancel the washer load thing entirely. As soon as I did that, the washer decided to drain its contents, and I had no way to stop it. So again, I had to clean up about 13 gallons of water that spilled all over the floor.

Right then, I understood the need for managerial interference and the necessity of process.

Defeated, I planted myself on the couch the rest of the night and watched game seven of the World Series. Fuck Madison Butt Farmer.

Living In An Ancient Opium Den - Day 114


I seem to be in a constant state of agitation and/or anger. I don't know why. Maybe it's the change in location. Maybe it's the stress associated with worrying about Miss Wiggles. Maybe I'm fucking crazy (I am). Maybe I just need to get back to being me, being in my routine, working out, eating relatively healthy 80% of the time, doing this and that, twiddling with projects.

This time of year has a tendency to make me want to take a knee on doing things in life. Like, my motivation to do anything just drops to damn near zero until after New Years. I feel like I gotta find a way to fight through it. I gotta find a way to get back on course and stay the course. I gotta find a way to accept that I no longer live in a vibrant place. Instead, I now live in an old, outdated house that smells like stale cigarette smoke and feels like about 80 old people have died in it. I'll get there, I think. I just gotta find my routine again. It's all about the routine, following the process, and mitigating dilly dally time.

Once again I woke up feeling like I have no idea what I should be doing. I'm like a robot whose lost it's programming. I literally just laid in bed and looked at my phone for 30 minutes waiting for something, whatever, some kind of spark of inspiration or something to get me going.

I'm used to getting up and taking the dogs for a walk, which means getting out of the house and doing some physical activity. I think that's what I need to get back to, even if I go for a walk by myself. I need to get up, deal with the dogs, then take a 15 to 30 to 45 minute walk just to get the juices flowing and out of my head. It's probably the reason I'm so agitated and seem to stay that way for the rest of the day. So that seems to be a good place to start. Get up, around 7 am, take the dogs out to the backyard to do their business, take the not injured one for a walk, then feed them and go through the "warm up" workout I was in the process of defining (push ups, pull ups, squats, swings, snatches). Then I can work in some more intense workout, like sprints or weight lifting.

I ate a couple of shitty croissants, washed my ball sack in the midget shower, then drove to work.


Yesterday I had every intention of going through the second lesson in module two of the Earn 1k bullshit, but the internet got in the way. As promised, here's my notes from the module 2, lesson 2 video:

youtube vortex again. I'm sorry.


I let her out last night to go piss and she saw a rabbit or something run across the backyard, and of course, she couldn't help herself. She chased after it and looks like she might be back to square one with the knee. I'm probably going to have to restrict her activity a little more. That means more crate time. I'm thinking of buying an x-pen or a baby gate or something and allow her to roam in a confined space, where she doesn't have to be laying down all the time.

I also researched some holistic bullshit on the line. Some of the descriptions of these products makes me think that we haven't come a long way in the field of natural healing. They use words like, "balanced energy," and, "open up healing pathways," and, "rejuvenate and nourish." It's all fluffy bullshit. Whether or not it works, I don't know? I'm thinking there's a strong placebo effect, but does that work on a dog? Like, if I believe strongly that giving her some witch doctor herbal formula will make her leg heal faster, will it? Is the placebo effect transferable?

"A-ron, she's a fucking dog!" you might be screaming into the screen right about now.


The house we live in is old. The carpet looks like it hasn't been changed since 1950. It's disgusting and it makes me feel dirty to just be in its presence. Plus it smells like stale smoke. But the house is cheap and in a good neighborhood, so, there's that.

I put together one of the beds while watching the World Series (go KC), the Stars, and the Mavericks. It was a good sports night. The only thing that would've made it better is if I could time travel back to Monday night and tell Tony Romo to stay his ass on the sidelines and let Weeden win this bitch. And also, to bitch slap Jerry Jones, just cause. He's had it coming for a while now.

This Is The Worst - Day 113


It seems she's made a very, very slight improvement. She's at least using her leg when she walks slow and when she's standing still. She's toe touching, but not much else. Her spirits are high still and she doesn't seem to be depressed or anything, which is very good.

The vet gave me some Rimadyl to give her, which I have been as directed. It's made her poop really soft and I think it's upsetting her stomach, because she's not eating as much as she usually does. I think I'm going to give her the usual dose today, then back off to half a dose for the next couple of days, then stop altogether. From everything I've read about Rimadyl, and even the vet has said, it's very hard on their stomachs and could cause liver damage. I think she's past the initial "it's painful all the time" phase and now she only has pain when she tries to use the leg.

I'm also thinking of getting her a brace to wear, since she's prone to being spooked real easy. It might help her recover a little better, and also make me not to have to keep her in her crate so much.


The new house is so fucking quiet. Almost too fucking quiet. I mean, so quiet all I can hear is the constant ring in my ears.

I rolled out of bed and wandered what I should be doing. If the dog was healthy, I'd be taking them for a walk. Since she's not, I just broke down and sat on the couch and played a stupid game on my phone. I hate this being out of routine bullshit. I guess I need to be more adamant about sticking to the usual regardless of where I'm at.

I took a shower, enduring the shower head that seems like it was built for a race of midgets instead of normal size humans. The water stream strikes me right in the middle of my fat chest, even when I'm standing inches from it. I have to power squat down to wash my hair. A year of this and my thighs should feel like steel.

I drove to work under zero stress. I didn't have to get on a highway, or get on a tollway where I pay the state government a nice fee to sit in traffic. I was able to get to work in about 15 minutes without much fuss. I didn't even have to break out the virtual machine gun that I use to virtually, in my head, blow cars away that are driving like assholes. And even better, I get to go home for lunch again. Yeah for me!


I've punted the whole recording yoga classes thing, because a) I don't have a fucking video thing, unless I use my phone, which I don't want to do because I don't got much memory and I'm not ready to upgrade to iPhone 8+ C Ultra, or whatever. And b) the logistics don't seem plausible, because I can't be in two places at the same time. What I may do however, and maybe I should focus on this stuff rather than wasting time with Ramit's fat dumb face telling me what to do, is approach these places to see if I can come in a record classes whenever, then present them online to people looking for online yoga classes, and just cut them in on the proceeds? I like that.


Since I have a fucking yard now, I need to either mow the fucking thing myself or hire someone to do it for me and pay them. The latter is probably what I'll go with, since I don't want to buy a fucking mower, but I might if the cost is ridiculous.

Anyway, I had the idea of creating an online portal where people could setup a lawn maintenance thing and then I could farm the work out to local landscaping companies. Win win, right? I mean, instead of going through and doing all the research online about which company is cheapest and which one is the best and what services are offered and blah blah blah, I could create a single place where you could go sign up and have someone show up at your house at whatever interval you need and do you stupid lawn. Fucking genius.


The Cowboys lost. That's it.

My Dog's Ligaments, TPLO, & WAIT, DON'T DO IT - Day 112

Yesterday I had to move from one location to another.
Which means I had to pack all the shit I’ve accumulated over my life.
Shit that I have because I work a job and have extra money leftover, after The System takes it cut, to buy things that don’t matter.
I had to pack all that shit up in boxes, then pay someone to come over and put it all in a truck and drive it to the new place and unload it all.
It’s such a fucking beating.

During the move, my dog busted her knee while she was hanging out at the dog park with a friend who had come over to baby sit the dogs while the movers were doing their thing.
She busted the good one, the one she hadn't busted yet until yesterday when she busted it real good.

The last time, when she busted the one that is now considered the not good one, I got sucked in to getting some really complicated, really fucking expensive, really fucking destructive, really fucking risky surgery to “fix” it.
The surgery is called TPLO, where they cut part of her bone, the tibia (T), rotate it a little to create a plateau (P), so that the joint, which used to contain a functioning ligament called an ACL, can stabilize, heal, and cause no more pain.
And also, has the dog back to 100% in “no time.”
I believe those were the actual words used by just about everyone involved in this scam, “no time.”

I got the surgery done without putting much thought into it, which costs me around $3700.
I love my dog, and at the time, I thought I was getting good advice from people who had done the surgery for their dogs with great success.
Looking back, I think they had good intentions.
I just wish I had done my homework before putting her through this horrific experience.

I dropped her off in the morning, they did the surgery (I never met the surgeon, who was supposedly, "one of the best"), then they kept her overnight for recovery.
The next day I picked her up.
As soon as I saw the horrific injury they inflicted on her leg, which was literally an incision down 3/4 the length of her leg, I knew I had made a huge mistake.
Despite the trauma she’d just experienced, she hobbled over to me and acted like she hadn’t seen me for days.
I felt so terrible for her at that moment.

The next couple of weeks, I struggled to keep her calm.
The stitches on her wound came undone.
I took her back to the vet, where they tried to put staples in place of the busted sutures.
That same night, I had to take her to the vet ER to have them removed because they wouldn’t stop bleeding.
They put her leg in a huge bandage that she wore for the next several days while the incision healed.
Which it never did fully.

In order to keep the shaved and rotated bone in place while it heals, they have to screw in a metal plate using screws that go almost through the entire bone.
They showed me on x-ray, and they were very proud of their work.
All I saw was my money poured into their pockets, and unnecessary trauma and pain, all to fix the job of a tiny little ligament.

Her incision never really healed because of the metal plate.
Her body rejected it.
They told me that she could probably spend the rest of her life with the metal plate in her body.
They told me that most dogs accept the plate just fine.
I found out later, after having the plate removed for another $700, and another month of trauma recovery, that most dogs reject the plate and have to have it removed.

$4400 later, plus the numerous visits to the vet at about $50 a pop, plus pain meds and such, my poor baby was left with a giant scar on her leg and a knee that only recovered to about 65% functionality.
She still favored it.
She still had pain in it from time to time, when she’d step on it wrong.
It makes me want to blow up all those fuckers who roped me, the big fucking sucker, into doing this extremely invasive surgery.

Not this time.
I’m not making that mistake again.
It may be rough to watch her limp around for a while.
It may break my heart to have to put her in her crate a lot.
But I’m not getting sucked in to these fucking money leaches again.

The conservative protocol is pretty simple.
Lots of rest, lots of fluids, no running, jumping, stair climbing or anything else that puts undue stress on the joint, for at least 2 months.

A couple years ago, I took her to a different vet because I thought she had busted her good knee, the one she busted this time, then.
He explained the difference between not doing anything and doing the TPLO.
Of course, his opinion was highly slanted towards TPLO, because, who fucking knows, maybe they're all in on the scam.
He explained that the recovery protocol is almost exactly the same; you have to restrict the dog from any activity that puts any undue stress on the affected joint, to allow scar tissue to build up to "repair" the area.
But his pitch for TPLO is that, without it, scar tissue builds up all zigzaggy and uncontrolled like (he drew a bunch of squiggly lines over the drawing he was doing on the board), and TPLO makes the scar tissue build up all nice and organized and pretty (he drew some circles and straight lines that made it look all professional or whatever).
Right then, I knew surgery is pretty much bullshit.
The only time to opt for the expensive, highly traumatic surgery is in a worst case scenario, if the joint doesn't heal well with lots of rest and rehab.

I always feel stressed when I don't know what to do, where there's no clear cut answer.
After I reminded myself of the last experience with TPLO, and did some research online, I feel better making the decision to not put her through the horrific surgery again.
And I hope by writing this that Google picks it up and shows it to people to dissuade them from getting the fucking surgery as a first option.
But I know Google is stupid, fuck them.

I'll keep you posted of her progress under the tag, Miss Wiggles (that's her nickname because when she gets excited, she wiggles her whole body).

This Tiny Fucker Of A Man Tried To "Ruin" My Day - Day 110


I woke up to the sound of some ass fucker on a loud ass motorcycle just fucking revving it in the parking lot, which is literally right outside my bedroom window. One more fucking night in the this shit hole apartment. Expect my review soon.

It was about 6:30 am. I rolled out of bed, took the dogs for a little walk, and cursed God for guiding me to this uptown ghetto of a place to live. I swear, it's like I'm living inside an obnoxiously loud cracker box surrounded by obnoxiously loud idiots. It's the perfect place to live if you can't afford the good uptown neighborhoods but still want to be considered "uptown." Suck it fuck faces. Hopefully you won't see me on the news this weekend being stuffed into a cop car in cuffs.

I got back from walking the dogs, did my little warm up routine, took a shower, then got dressed. I drove to the place where I'm supposed to now send money every month for rent on a house we're moving into this weekend. It's a nice office building occupied by people who wear suits to their jobs. I feel sorry for them. I imagine if I were to bust one of them open, I'd be able to bring in a hefty price by auctioning off their robot parts on the ebay.

I take the elevator to the 8th floor, totally feeling like a scumbag. My hair is longer than it should be, and a little shaggy. I haven't shaved in days. I'm wearing shorts that haven't been washed in a couple of weeks, and they're covered in dog hair. And all these assholes on their blue tooth things talking into the air while doing their best to ignore my presence. In my head, I'm exacting justice by reminding myself that I probably make more money than all these fucks. Not that that's any indication of superiority or anything (it is, but only in this highly specific context).

I go the office I'm supposed to go to and tell the little receptionist dude that I'm here to give them some money. He says the person I need to see is on the phone and he directs me to wait in a small conference room.

I sit there. Then sit there some more. Then some more. I'm really good at sitting and doing nothing.

10 am strikes, after waiting about 20 minutes for this trick to get off the fucking phone. Agitated, I get up and tell the little receptionist dude that I'm leaving and she'll have to meet me in the morning at the house. He apologized and went and got the chick he was supposed to get 20 minutes ago. I kind of feel like he did it on purpose, but oh well, fuck him.

I gave them my money and cursed The System for it being the way it is. Then I drove to work so I can sit at a desk and type things into a computer so the company I work for will give me money that I can then turn around and give to the people I just gave money too so I can keep my body inside a house on a street with a lawn and stuff. I longed for the return of Ebola. Maybe one day I'll get my wish and the Western world will devolve into absolute chaos.


I was standing at my desk thinking about doing some real work, the kind of work they pay me to show up to do everyday. But sometimes, I get sucked into this youtube vortex, where I’ll watch one video, then see another in the sidebar or think of something else related, watch that, then another, and so on and so forth. Today was one of those days, but it was for a good cause.

I’ve been thinking about how my musical palette has progressed through my life. It started with Quiet Riot, so I watch the Metal Health video. Then I got sucked in to Ratt, then Motley Crue, then whatever. All the horrible music that I remember listening to when I was a kid. I considered it “research” for the upcoming podcast/audioblog thing.

I did get actual work done eventually. It was a pretty good day. But those damn youtube vortexes, they’re so easy to get sucked into, and they fucking know it!

Fucking Just Do It Already; Let The Chips Fall Where They May - Day 109


Every once in a while, God squats down and farts in your mouth. He doesn’t do it because he’s a bad entity. He does it to remind you that something you need to take care of, something important, needs to get taken care of. Like, if you don’t take care of it soon, he’s going to make sure you die soon, then probably He'll send you to Hell. The fart is your wake up call.

6 am, I hop out of bed, walk the dogs, then pace in the kitchen for a little bit. You ever seen a lost kid in a mall or something, looking for his mom? That’s what I felt like. My routine has been disrupted by moving and also by erratic get up out of bed times. And also, the loss of knorbi, my dear Qt application that is no more. There’s a void that needs filling and I’m not quite sure how to fill it yet. In the meantime, I’ll be pacing a lot trying to figure out what I should be doing.

After my brain calmed down, I packed some boxes because Saturday we’re moving into a house house, with a yard, and a fence, and a mailbox, and a garage. That’s probably another reason I feel lost.

The good news is, today is a “work” from home day. The first day after a beat down day is always light, so what better way to celebrate the lightness than by “working” from home. I’m sitting in a Starbuck, watching the olds and jobless going about their boring lives, while writing this. #humbled


I’ve always wanted to be a rock star. I’m too old to fulfill that dream now, and also too talentless and too scared and too, whatever. But I’ve decided that’s it time to do something around the very generic concept of music. So I did my very first recording for the Human Harvest music podcast/broadcast and other stuff show thing. I don’t have a good subtitle yet. Stay tuned for that.


I've been beating my head against the wall trying to figure out what the Human Harvest show should be about, and more broadly, what the fuck I should be doing since I nixed knorbi (poor little fella, I miss it). Since I tend to be all over the map with things I like to talk about and stuff I'm interested in, it's hard to nail down a single subject line. This had prevented me from getting started. How can you start something if you don't know what's it's all about?

Then I remembered a thing I'd written a long time ago about just getting started. The whole, "ready, fire, aim" mantra. And that's when the light bulb went on and I got in the (now mostly empty) closet and recorded some stuff for the first episode. My thinking was, "just get started and let it sort itself out."

It's kind of like this blog. I started with one idea in mind and it's morphed into this thing, which may change eventually again if I get another wild hair up my butt.

So, if you're thinking of doing something, anything, and you're floundering around trying to figure it all out, just get started doing something and let the game come to you.


I fell asleep on the couch watching football. I felt like I should have been doing something productive; these days, sitting on the couch and watching TV while NOT doing anything else makes me feel uncomfortable. It makes me feel like a loser or something.

Take That You 3rd Place Sports Sports Talk Man - Day 108


I remember a time when 8 am was early. If I was up at 8 am, then something important was going down. Now, 8 am seems late. It's like my whole morning gets fucked up if I wake up after 7 am. Old age sucks anus drops.

I got up, put on the clothes I wear during warm weather to go outside and do workout things, and took the dogs for a short walk. I came back, fed them, and did my little warmup workout, which now includes a set of kettlebell swings and kettlebell snatches. It makes me feel good that I've been able to keep this thing up for almost 3 weeks now.


It was another beat down day. I couldn't help but think about how life is a cycle of mounting tension. Like, you plan a vacation or something else exciting, then you feel the excitement build inside you as the day approaches. Then you release the excitement and go back to being a boring person after it’s all over. It’s like coming, or eating when you’re hungry.

That's what a beat down day is, except whatever the opposite of excitement is (dread?) builds. Immediately after the two hour shame session, I feel relieved. I still go back to being a boring person, but the anxiety has squirted out of my body to make room for the next round of anxiety to build. What the fuck am I talking about?

Today was especially painful. We keep this spreadsheet that has a number that indicates how well you performed during the beat down cycle. It's color coded so managers and other scrutinizing types don't have to put any thought into how well you've done. Red is bad, yellow is not so bad, green is good, and purple is outstanding. I came in red this time. And when it's red, the boss looks at me and furrows his eyebrows together and says something like, "can you tell me what happened." Then I have to write a little note in the red box that explains why the number is highlighted red. It feels like any work I did accomplish during the beat down cycle was a complete waste of my time. I mean, if it's a binary thing, I either did good or bad, and if it's going to be bad, why not take the zero?

The corporate world seems to operate in this binary dimension. You're either a good employee or bad employee. The task you just completed is either good or bad. Your performance over the last year was good or bad. I want to fucking blow it up.


I got in a Twitter war with one of the local DJs of the third place sports station in town. He tweeted something stupid which got retweeted by someone I follow. He was plugging something on their stupid show that no one listens to because we’re all busy listening to Ticket AM. So I replied to the tweet something to the effect of, “too bad no one will ever hear [whatever thing they were going to broadcast].”

He made an angry response, then I made a smart ass response, then he made another angry response, then I made another response, then back and forth. He eventually gave up after realizing that his station, and his shitty show, were last place dogs in the sports talk genre of Dallas radio. I speculated that he hadn’t known this fact and showed him a couple of articles that explained how poorly their station was doing compared to Ticket.

I kind of felt bad for giving him shit, because really, I don’t give a fuck about him and his stupid show. And I also know how fucking hard it is to do a talk show for longer than 10 minutes. Plus he’s going up against a station that has had a strangle hold on the Dallas sports market for the past 20 years, with no signs of ever letting up.

So I Twitter apologized to him, then inserted one more smart ass shot, just to keep him in his place.

Home Is Where You Can't Be Controlled - Day 106


I was lost last night. Usually, I'd work on knorbi and watch football. But since I've pretty much mothballed knorbi in favor of the thing that's been eating at my ass for so long, I didn't know what I should be doing. So I starting reading a book called Art & Fear. It's in the same vein as Ignore Everybody, but on a deeper level.

I also experimented with a thing on my phone called Impaktor. It's a cool little app that turns finger drumming on a desk or whatever surface into tones. It's like a drum machine, but cooler. I have no idea how to incorporate it into anything, but it's fun to fuck around with.

I woke up around 7 am, feeling the effects of ingesting horrible food at the fair yesterday. My girlfriend said it best as we were walking out, "I feel like I'm covered in oil." Well, all that oil came rushing out of my body this morning, like a firehouse of filth and shame. And the food wasn't nearly as good as I remember it. And it was fucking expensive. I don't know how all those poor people afford to take their entire family there for a day.

I took the dogs for a good walk, got home and ate some leftover soup and some chicken sausages that I think are delicious. They're the kind that promises that there's no bad stuff in them. Who fucking knows. I don't trust anything that comes in a box and/or comes out of a grocery store. Basically, anything that uses marketing tricks to get you to buy it, I'm skeptical.

I drove to work and started work on changing some bad habits I've formed while I'm here. Habits that have caused my waist line to get bigger and the scale to read a higher number than it used to. We'll see how it plays out, but all my other attempts to change the habit have failed so far.


The modern world has changed the way, or rather, changed our options regarding where and when we work. For some jobs, not all jobs. Mostly the office jobs where a majority of the work goes through a computer.

We have the technology now to work from pretty much anywhere in the world as long as there's an Internet connection available. And in some cases, you don't even need the interweb. You might at some point, but the work doesn't have to be performed while connected (unless all you do is answer stupid emails, in which case, I'm sorry).

So it shouldn't be a big deal for a company to allow their employees to work remotely, right? Fucking right, but a lot of companies don't like it, because they lose a little bit of control over someone who is working remotely. The boss doesn't have the ability to walk by your cube, look in and see what you're doing, and in the process make you feel uncomfortable. Like, "oh shit, I better get back to work because there's the boss." When you're at home or wherever, you can look at the facebook on the Internet, do something else in the house, like dishes, or cook, or clean, or whatever, without worrying about the boss looming over your shoulder. And those moments when you are performing work have a lower possibility of getting interrupted by other office sloths, who seem to make a living walking around chit chatting with everyone all day.

Companies don't like allowing you that kind of freedom. The boss is the person in control, the person responsible for making sure you get your work done. And a lot of places feel the only way to ensure you get your work done is to have a boss in the vicinity who can crack the whip if you get distracted.

I think this has to do with the old way of thinking that equates time spent on a task to the amount of work produced. 8 hours equals X amount of output, where X is some arbitrary number the boss decides is the standard, probably based on how much money you make.

We all know this is fucking stupid. I've known people who spend 8 hours a day slaving away hard on a task, and I spend an hour working and get just as much done. Not that I'm smarter or more competent or whatever. It has nothing to do with that and everything to do with focus. 8 hours is a ridiculous amount of time to expect someone to remain focused. I'd say 2 hours is just about the upper threshold of human attention span before a break is needed. For me, it's about 45 minutes to an hour before I need a little break. And I can't keep it up for an 8 hour time span. No one can. Fuck these old school assholes.

There's also a more sinister thing going on. It's not about getting work done, it's about control. When you're away from the job, you tend to not think about the boss and his bullshit. You feel somewhat free. And that makes bosses uncomfortable, because they feel like they need to make sure you know they're in charge. And the only way to do that is to keep you in their presence, to walk by your cube from time to time, just reminding you that you're the slave and they're the master.

Maybe I'm fucking crazy. Maybe my company and your company and all the companies and bosses on Earth have nothing but the best intentions towards their employees. But I suspect there's a deep mistrust between the employers and employees that will never be solved as long as we have the whole corporate structure hierarchy thing going on.

You'll never convince me that my company and my bosses don't hate me. They hate me because they have to pay me, and have to babysit me, and have to provide me with equipment to do the work they pay me to do, and think they have to keep a strong management structure to keep me in my place, and they have to provide me a place to perform my work, a controlled environment where I become a resource in their machine as soon as I walk in the door. 

I accept this role. It keeps me just on the edge of comfort. I know that at any moment, this whole job thing could come to an end and I'll have to get out there and find another. And I'm fine with that because it keeps me on my toes. I just wish it was a little bit more acceptable to work remotely, that's all.


Fantasy football was pretty good to me this week. I love you Fan Duel, at least this week.

Stop Ignoring Your Calling - Day 105

Forget practicality.
Forget the possibility of making money (almost impossible).
Forget worrying about whether or not people will like it.
Forget about right and wrong.
Forget about thinking you need this and that to get started, especially talent. Talent can be learned.

If you was going to be dead in a year, guaranteed, what is one thing you’d want to create?
When you remove the desire for commercial success (money), and the need for approval, and the distraction of things lesser important, what is left?
What have you done in the past that you seem to get lost doing, where time doesn’t matter, where you feel like you’re in your own little bubble (the zone)?

Forget what you should be doing.
Forget what other people tell you you should be doing.
You should be making money and saving for an uncertain future, for old age, for the day when you stop being able to be a productive and desirable member of the work force.
We all know that.
We’re told that from the day we step foot in kindergarten (aka brainwashing academy).
That’s what we should all be doing.
That’s the wheel we can’t seem to step off, even for a few minutes.
But that’s not what’s in our heart.

If you didn’t have to worry about money, if you had all you needed and then some to live comfortably forever and ever, what would you spend your time doing?
Probably a lot of things, right?
You’d write books, make music, start a podcast about how awesome it is to be a person who never has to worry about money again, maybe something stranger, something darker, something that pushes the envelope of what’s possible a little further out, something that influences a 7 year old, something that no one on Earth will ever “get,” maybe they’ll never see/hear/read/experience it, but it will deeply satisfy you.
Or would you just spend your money and be a person who consumes as much as he/she can until they are dead?

What if you had to do this thing?
What if someone came up to you and put a gun to your head and said, “pick one thing you’d wished you’d done before you died. You have 3 seconds!”
What would you say?
That’s the thing you should do.

My answer would be, “so many things!”
Then he’d pull the trigger and all those things would spill out of my head and soak into the Earth and no one on this planet ever again would be able to reconstruct those thoughts and execute them.
They’d be lost forever.

And who knows if one of those things might have changed or influenced the world in some way.
Even if it was in a tiny way.
Even if it was in a destructive way.
Your thing doesn’t have to make the world better, or worse, or have any effect at all.
(It's OK if it makes it worse.)
It only has to effect you.

Then there’s that gun, still pressed against your head, and you’re trying to figure out what the right answer is.
Because maybe you think you need to say something profound, like something that if done to its fullest, will make the world a better place.
Because that’s what we’re all here to do, right, make the world a better place?
We’re here because we have no other choice.
We’re here because billions of years have past and billions more will pass, and somewhere in that timeline, if time is even a real thing, stuff came together in a unique way to create you.
There’s no right, there’s no wrong.
There’s only that fucking gun and that lunatic pressing it against your head, asking you what your one thing is.

It doesn’t have to be big.
It doesn’t have to be unique.
It’s the one thing that’s been sitting in the back of your head for last 30 years, poking you every once in while, “how about now, is now a good time to give me a try? C'mon you fucking asshole, let me out!”
It’s that thing that won’t shut the fuck up, no matter how much crap you try to pile in front of it to shut it up.
Kids, marriage, bills, sickness, global hunger, your boss, your job, your mother-in-law, your fucking opinions about, whatever the fuck it doesn’t matter.
All of that shit goes away as soon as the bullet enters your brain.

But you still can’t answer it.
You keep trying to figure out the logistics of it all, how to fit it into your regular, boring life.
And you can’t, so you stammer, trying to think of an alternative that’s a little bit easier, a little bit less intrusive, a little bit less likely to get criticized, a little bit more likely to make money, a little bit more likely to be looked upon as something normal.
But you know that alternative thing that fits neatly into your boring life, the thing you'll dabble in from time to time but never really take seriously, is not going to satisfy you.
The asshole with the gun demanding an honest answer won't buy it.

You know what the true answer is.
You already figured it out years ago, before you could even make memories, but you buried it because it's scary.
You buried it because you're afraid.
"What if I suck at it? What if no one pays attention? What if I get criticized? What if my wife/husband/father/mother/[insert the rest of the human population here] doesn't approve? What if, what if, what if, ...?"
What if you're fucking good?
What if you suck for a long time and produce a lot of garbage, but you get better?
What if you don't give a fuck and just enjoy doing it, regardless of the rewards that may or may not come?


Fuck it, it’s too late, you’re dead.

Day 104 - The New New Thing & How To Get Arrested In Dallas Without Killing Someone


I’m still stuck in the mixed emotions of whether or not I should continue with knorbi  I’d hate to wake up a year from now and regret not sticking with it. Maybe it could organically grow into the greatest writing tool ever known to man? Maybe it could be something special, just for me, an instrument, an advantage that no one else has? Who knows, but I think for now, the lure of the new new thing is driving me off course. I should stick with knorbi, but maybe re-think the premise, re-think the design (again), and come up with something unique, artistic, and above all, useful.

I woke up this morning and thought of a clever come back I could post in the great troll war of 2014 Facebook group  But I held back. I’ve unjoined the group and turned off notifications, but that hasn’t stopped me from checking back in and catching up on what’s going on. I so bad want to get one more shot in. But I know that one more shot leads to wanting one more shot which leads to wanting one more shot. I just can’t stand the feeling that they got the best of me, that they won. That’s exactly what I’m trying to force myself to do. I’m going to be OK allowing someone else to believe they beat me.

I took the dogs for a slow walk this morning. I feel so bad for them. They’ve been couped up in a crowded, noisy apartment for 9 months now, with little sunlight, and not nearly enough outside time. Next week we move into a house, with a yard, and we’ll regain the ability to open the windows and leave the back door open so they can go in and out. I’m more excited for the dogs than I am for myself.

I got back home and made breakfast for the family. Bacon, eggs, and avocado. It’s was a big hit.

I’ve been doing some work out type stuff in the morning, grease the groove type shit. I’m not calling it a workout, more like a warm up, because eventually I’d like to get back in the weight room, but still be able to continue getting better/stronger at these things:

  • Pushups x 11
  • Squats x 11
  • Pull ups x 1.5 (I’m really struggling to get up the second one. It’s like my body just has this block halfway up and quits on me. I feel like I have the strength, but my brain is like, “uhhh, no.”)

That’s it. My plan is to keep increasing the number of reps and incorporate other movements, like kettle bell swings, kettle bell snatches, and other things as the warmup progresses. I’m excited where this might lead.


I’ve always thought that I should get good at marketing, but I’ve never really taken the time to learn the ropes and apply what I know. Like, I feel like there’s this invisible barrier thing, a voice in the back of my head maybe, that prevents me from convincing myself that I might actually be good at it. So, I never put in any but the most minimal effort.

I was thinking this morning about trying to find readers for the two books my alter ego has written and self published. This may be one of the hardest things to market, because it’s hard to explain exactly what benefit someone will get from reading the books, other than, they may laugh a little and get a little entertainment value.

Hmmm, I just had a thought that maybe I could position the books as being something you can read while you’re taking a shit. I could even create a site called, or an app, or site or something specifically designed to be reading material while you’re sitting on the toilet. And especially while you’re sitting on the toilet at work. Something to think about.

Anyway, the marketing thing has been something I’ve dabbled in from time to time but have never really committed myself to getting good at. And I feel like it’s a skill that is a cornerstone to making money outside of a job. If you suck at marketing, it doesn’t matter what you’re selling, no one will want to buy it.

So as part of my possible rebuilding plan, i.e. what to do post knorbi, maybe I should pull my head out of the stuff I’m working on and spend some time trying to figure out how to sell the stuff I’ve already made? I know I’ve kinda halfway dedicated myself to Earn 1k again, but maybe this marketing thing is more important? Or maybe, Earn 1k is a good gateway to getting started? I don’t know. My head hurts thinking about it. It makes me want to punch a donkey in the taint, if donkeys even have taints. Do they?


I went to the park and sat on a bench and watched things. I was thinking about what my next move should be, since I’ve pretty much decided that knorbi is dead to me. I feel like I might be making a mistake, but the fact that I’m in this place again, in search of the new new thing, makes me believe that building something like that isn’t for me. In other words, I’m just doing it for the money and that’s not enough of a motivation to keep me going.

Anyway, when I rolled into the park, there was a homeless looking dude standing on the other side of the street screaming, “NI*&ER!” It didn’t look like he was yelling at anyone in particular. He was just jacked up on whatever drug and walking around randomly screaming it. He was white, and probably picked the best spot in the city to scream such a word.

I sat down on the bench and started churning the gears in my head, as if I’m going to come up with THE answer while sitting doing nothing. I came up with zero answers, only more questions. How can you possibly solve an existential problem by being existential? How the fuck should I know if I’m going to enjoy doing something or not unless I’m fucking doing it? YOU CAN’T FUCKTARD!

Anyway, the dude makes his way across the street and into the park. He’s still far enough away that I don’t feel like I’m going to have protect America, but close enough that he’s scaring the Quinceanera party that looked oddly out of place.

The guy then starts screaming, louder, “FUCK YOU, NI%*ER!” He’s yelling it as loud as a human can yell it. So loud it’s echoing off the surrounding buildings. I’m sitting there trying to figure out what this asshole’s motivation is. Most likely, he was just blasted out of his mind on something, probably prescription, probably in too high a dose, probably prescribed by a doctor who only gives a fuck about increasing his bottom line. That’s when I decided to call 911, because this guy was either going to say the thing to someone who wouldn’t like it none too much, or he was going to exercise his retard strength on some poor schmuck who was just out having a boring day.

The cops showed up and there was a bit of a standoff. I was rooting for chaos, of course. I was hoping the cops would do something crazy so I could break out my phone and record it then post it to the internet and become a 10 second celebrity. But he went quietly, and so did I, disappointed that even the exciting times of my life are still pretty boring. Thanks, Obama.

Day 103 - Victory For The Nazi Troll & The Great Rebuild Of 2014


I realize I've made a mistake. A fun mistake, but still, fuck me.

In an impossible quest to prove myself a better writer and human being than a handful of digital entities I've never met, I've proven myself a fucking failure. I just can't let someone else win. I have to keep going and going and driving things into the dirt until someone gives up. Because I'm not fucking giving up; I can't let someone else who I think I'm superior to win, I'm better than that. I should have played sports or something where there's a clearer line between winning and losing.

Regardless, it was fun while it lasted, even though I lost in the end. And I don't mean I lost in the sense that they got the best of me, but I got the best of myself, if that makes any fucking sense (I'm not sure it does). I can't help but think that successful, hard working, quality writers, musicians, whatever, don't get involved in digital nonsense. They have no time or patience, or just don't feel that they have to prove how smart or how right they are all the time, and especially to a bunch of digital idiots. It's the equivalent of wasting your time trying to convince a die hard Yankees fan that they should switch their allegiance to the Royals. Yet every once in a while, I run my head into that wall.

Anyway, I'm past it, I think. I'd really like to catch myself getting sucked in, but it all starts as a stupid gag, poking a little fun at people who are entrenched in an old way of thinking (or just a way of thinking that is different than mine). Just like I'm entrenched in whatever way I think. It's a can't win situation. And it upsets me that it's an argument with people that don't matter, about subjects that don't matter. I mean, they don't matter to me. Whatever. Back to this blog thing and other things that matter only to me.

Without the fiancée to disrupt my sleep, I woke up at 7:45 am. The dogs tried getting me up earlier, but I ignored them. They seem to be easier to ignore than the human.

I took the dogs for a short walk, shorter than usual. I saw a person walking a dog coming towards me and it's one of those days where I don't feel like interacting with other people, so I turned around and went back in. Plus, my morning was running late since I actually got to sleep in.

I made one more response to the facebook troll session and unjoined the group. I can't keep allowing myself to get roped in. I've cut off the digital drip that lures me into insanity. I keep telling myself, "I know better, let 'em jerk off to arguing about minutiae," but as long as that drip comes every few minutes, I'll still be opening my mouth to swallow their jizz.

I took a shower and thought about how I want to go to the state fair, because I haven't been in years. I think I'm going to push to go tomorrow so I can stuff my face with the most horrific food humans have ever invented, adding to this layer of fat accumulating around my waist. Six pack abs seems like such a pipe dream these days, because I can't get out of my own way.

I double birded the Ebola ground zero location on the drive to work. Hopefully we won't see any more cases here in Dallas. Who gives a fuck about the other places.


I’m in a bit of a dilemma. I’m not sure if I want to keep going with knorbi or not.

I’ve been thinking lately about the next year and whether or not I’m going to write another book. And even if I do write another book, why not just use Word, since it’s very compatible between Mac and PC, which is the whole purpose of doing knorbi in the first place, right? I don’t know. I feel like there’s something else that I could spend some time on rather than trying to develop something that already has in existence a bazillion tools to get the job done.

If I back up a level and go meta, the question really is, should I keep doing what I’m doing? Is the important thing to finish what I start? Or is the important thing to iterate through things until I find something that sticks. Like this writing thing has stuck. Over the past couple of years, rarely have I missed a day where I haven’t done some sort of writing task.

This always seems to happen to me after I get sucked into reading Ignore Everybody for the 85th time. I love that damn book. It forces me to ask myself these types of questions. Is knorbi really the thing I should be working on, or is it something else, something that no one else has ever done? I think with knorbi, my eyes see dollar signs. Like, I’ve always viewed the computer science thing as a way to make money, even though I love having the freedom to do what I want, to express myself in creative ways, but still have rules. I’m not sure knorbi is fulfilling that purpose.

But it’s hard to figure out if I’m scared of producing something that no one gives a fuck about, which is a high probability regardless of what I build. Or do I genuinely want to free up the time to work on something else, something a little more out there? I don’t know, but it does feel more like the first thing. I think I’ve elevated my hopes up to the point where I don’t want to get hit with that blast of disappointment, and this whole, “I should be working on something else,” is just an excuse. It’s never a good place to be in when you tie success to how other people are going to respond to your work.

Perhaps what I need is to re-think what knorbi really should be. Right now, it’s a markdown editor, plain and simple, packaged as a writing tool. Maybe I should develop my own proprietary format? Maybe I should think bigger, like change the way people write in general? I don’t even know what that would be like, because I feel like I write the traditional way. What does it even mean to write? What’s the purpose, the end goal? For people to read, or for the writer’s own edification? Both? Something else?

I think simply making a markdown writing tool isn’t big enough, it isn’t artistic enough. In other words, I think I’m better than just making a thing that any junior level programmer could slap together over a weekend. I think I’m looking for something to really show my ass, something that’s almost impossible to duplicate, something hard, forward thinking, but still artistic. Then again, maybe I’m not good enough? Maybe I’m better off sticking to the common things, rolling with the common crowd, being a person who stands right at the top of the bell curve?

Whatever. Fuck me. I guess I’m heading back to the drawing board.


In the aftermath of the knorbi dilemma, I had a couple ideas…

  • Create the world’s first automated novel writer. It would kinda be like the HAL 9000, but it’s sole purpose would be to churn out fiction novel after novel. Almost impossible to fully automate this, I think, unless it just randomly generated grammar that could then be filtered by real people. Surely if it ran 24/7 that it could spit out something good in a few years? Imagine a program that produced a novel every minute. That’s 60 an hour, 1440 per day, 525,600 per year. Imagine flooding amazon with each of these novel?
  • Several years ago I created a website for people to promote their blog posts. it was a simple concept: people submit their blog posts, they go in a queue, then are “rotated” in and out of the main page, which only displayed 10 at a time. Kind of like redditt, but scaled down to a consumable level. This new idea would be something similar, except it would act as a ranking system for self published novels, where, hopefully, the best would bubble to the top. So a person could submit their novel. It would go into a waiting queue. Then when its time came, it would be displayed on the main page and readers would read it then give it a score. There’s a ton of logistical problems with this, but if I could pull together a small team of initial readers, there’s no shortage of self published authors hacking their crap. It would be the ultimate clearing house.
  • I could start a podcast called Your Boss Hates You or The Slavecast, where I spew my insanity about how much it sucks to live and work in the modern world and how we need to collectively go back to survival of the fittest. Whacky, but probably fun.

Day 102 - The Great Troll War Of 2014


I couldn't help but wake up thinking of witty responses to lure people even further into my trolling scheme. I came up with some good ones too. One of them even ryhmed. But, I forgot all of them when the time came to write them in the little facebook box. That seems to be a recurring thing for me. My best thoughts fall right on the floor and die. C'mon Google and invent and thought recorded already (no, seriously, don't do that). I still managed to put some good stuff in there (see below), but it never felt as good as the ones that fell out of my head earlier.

I woke up at 5:30 am again. This time, not so pissed off because I was in bed by 10 pm last night. I checked the email on my phone and had about 87 new messages, half of which were from people getting sucked in to my trolling of the trolling Ian Richardson. I've never met this person. I have no idea who he or she is, but I already hate them. I know we could never be friends. Isn't that weird how facebook gives me that sort of power, to just hate someone because I don't like their digital manifestation? But we're all better for it, right? Right?

The girlfriend is headed to another state for a job interview. I hope she gets it and gets paid a shit ton more than she's making now in her shitty situation, so we can move away from all this Ebola mess. The more that comes out about how the CDC and the hospital and all involved handled this thing, the more it scares me that we're all doomed at the hands of arrogant fuck-tards. I'm not that scared, yet, but it's getting to that point.


More from the facebook troll war...

Here's something I said down in the discussion after someone else said something about being a part of some "bona fide Writer's Guild," whatever that means. I guess he/she was trying to validate that they are indeed a good professional writer, since they were a part of some guild, not a group, that engaged in serious discussions about the craft of writing, or whatever. Then Ian made some comment about how he's bitter about people not siding 100% with him and whatever. Anyway, here's what I wrote...

"I submit to you subpar authors proof that Ian Richardson is the chosen one: 

"After a near fatal incident a few years ago I went back and I've been lucky, I've had a couple of things in community production and some wonderful rehearsed readings, but the Holy Grail of traditional print still wafts tantalisingly before me because to me it means validation of quality and 'professional'."

The most brilliant sentence ever written. Notice the use of tantalisingly, a word Ian has invented to mean "profound stench; a fart that doesn't dissipate." Genius. 

And we all know you're being modest. "Lucky," come on. Was Jesus "lucky" when he rose from the dead? Was Abraham Lincoln "lucky" when that guy shot him in the head and prevented him from turning into Julius Caesar? Were all the digital trolls of the last half decade "lucky" when they goaded so many suckers into wasting their time responding to tantalisingly posts about superiority, arrogance, and self aggrandizing? I don't think so. This is calculated genius.

Thank you Ian for being you. I will worship you, until I find someone better or I lose interest, which I tend to do because I have the attention span of a hummingbird. But for now, yeah, you're the best!"

Then he wrote back...

"I submit you've failed to understand the difference between expressing opinions, having discussions and making assumptions about your own rightness. You really need to read in the posts that I'm trying to present balanced views and personal opinions, and try to demonstrate why I think they are valid, not making some universal pronouncement of correctness - what the hell is it you are trying to do except be a not very funny smartarse?

I did, as you requested, read the intro to your novel. As I have ADD myself it's not hard to spot in either the novel or your postings. It can lead one to be a bit of a dick sometimes in dealing with other people."

More pretentious posturing. What he really meant to say is he thinks I'm an asshole for trying to sabotage his pissy complaint about people posting their garbage books to the group (there is a lot of garbage that people think is good, and they feel the need to just spam the facebook group, which does make it hard to stay in, but fuck this Ian asshole).

Here's what I wrote in return...

"Ian, oh great one, thank you so much for taking time from your busy day of petting your five cats, watching Wendy Williams, sipping loudly your triple expresso, and having serious conversations with other intellects about the literary merits of Sam Pink's most recent novel, Witch Piss, to read the intro to my novel. I think if you, and everyone else participating in this lesson in trolling, would pay $1.99 for my novel and download it to their Kindle and read it to completion, you would all see that I'm not nearly as good a writer as you, and how just about everyone who has written a word is better than me.

Ian, oh God of literacy, I would love to read some of your drivel, so I may learn how to be a better human being.

In case y'all have forgotten, the novel is titled [edited], and not to be a spoiler, but [edited] are hand guns that the "hero" forms a relationship with. Here's that link again..."

He didn't like that comment. I think it was calling his writing drivel, which I've never had the chance to read because he's too much of a pussy to put it out there for criticism. This is what he wrote in return. The proverbial, "good day sir!"

" I made a decision fairly recently that continuing to be adult or reasonable with people who are neither is both a waste of time and pandering to them, so my decision is to call them out. 

So I will: you are being a total and absolute dick. 

Your comments are nasty, uncalled for, vindictive and have no base in anything I've said except that you clearly find people having discussions a rebuke to your inability to join in.

Since you have also decided you can proclaim that my work - which you have never seen - is drivel. I think I can comment that your novel, which I have seen, is deeply boring, peurile and not funny.

You clearly have some major chip on your shoulder about you own inadequacies and you are also clearly either too stupid or too lazy to bother with trying to put together a rational comment. If you are going to be such a total and absolute prat as to start making attacks on someone on the basis of some imagined assertion of superiority why should anyone bother to listen to anything you say? Indeed in what way are you not just another loser troll? 

Just keeping listening to the voices in your head, I'm sure they will agree with you.

Seriously if you can't play nice with the adults in a discussion just go back to the sandbox."

Notice his use of big fancy words like "peurile" and "rebuke." To me, it's a tell tell sign that he's trying really hard to be the kind of writer he thinks everyone agrees is how a writer should be, instead of just being himself. I love that about him. Here's my responses, which ended the conversation so far. He must've run out of big words.

"It was the cats comment, huh? And you probably have no idea who Wendy Williams is. But that other stuff, that's pretty accurate, right? The whole coffee sipping nonsense? No?

As an olive branch, I'm going to give you all a FREE copy of [edited], since Ian seemed to enjoy it so much (I assume puerile and deeply boring are right in line with Ian's tastes), but he probably can't afford the hefty price of $1.99.

Here's the link...

Oh, and also, I'd love to still read some of your drivel Ian. I could use some good reading to fall asleep to. Thanks. I'll await your opening yourself up to the same criticism you seem to like to dole out. I love you. <3"

I love being a digital cancer. It makes my heart fill with, whatever, love or something.


I watched football and hockey and regretted my involvement in the troll war. I can't believe I let myself get sucked in. Regardless, I couldn't help but continue being an annoying prick. It's what I do best I guess.

Then I watched a thing on HBO about Russia having a problem with homosexuals. Mainly, "vigilante" groups hunt, harrass, and humiliated suspected homosexuals. Why? Who the fuck knows, because it's fucking Russia and they've got nothing better to do? Or maybe they're all homosexuals and refuse to accept it. I just don't understand how someone can spend their life hating on some other group of people because of how they choose to have sex with. Oh well. The moral of the story is, don't go to Russia, whether you're straight, gay, bisexual, trisexual, whatever. Just leave them alone.

Oh, and I learned through the news that Dallas is now Ebola free. We shipped all the infected off to other places that are smarter and less MERICKA! than we are. Cause you know, nothing can fuck with MERICKA! Except Ebola, and hippies, and hopefully, eventually, gun laws.

Day 101 - Trolling For Ebola


I can't help but think that one day, if I'm able to keep this daily blogging thing up, if I'm able to keep experimenting with format, that one day I'll be the baddest ass blogger that has ever lived. You remember The Beatles, the band that practically invented modern music? They weren't the first, they were just the best. Like Michael Jordan, Roger Staubach (fuck Joe Montana), Quentin Tarantino, all those humans are/were the best at what they do. Not just in the current generation, but of ALL time. That's my goal. But I'll hold off sucking my own dick until say day 1000 when people send me emails of their nipples and ask if they can send me all their money for being whatever new word means better than amazing at the time.

I woke up, again against my will, around 5:30 am. I rolled out of bed, suited up, and took the dogs for a walk. I hate these colder mornings because it requires I put on more clothes than just a pair of shorts and some thin t-shirt. This whole four season bit is getting old.

I made some soup yesterday to eat as my breakfast for the next couple of days. It's just a bunch of vegetables, some buffalo burgers that were sitting in the freezer, and a handful of spices, mainly garlic salt. It's delicious. I made some bacon and cut up an avocado as a compliment. I feel the nutrients scrubbing my cells clean.

I drove to work and learned from Ticket AM talk show host Gordon Keith that Ebola is still going strong here in Dallas, as there's another person infected. I truly feel bad for those people who cared for that asshole who brought the shit over here. So far, I think they're doing OK. Not great, but no signs that they're not going to make it yet. I'm pulling for them. I wonder if I could do something awesome for them and/or their family besides write words about them in an obscure blog that no one reads?

In the meantime, I continue to be paranoid of anyone around me. And the hand sanitizer companies are going to make a fortune off me as long as this is a thing. But I have hope that we can squash it, because if Nigeria can do it, so can we. And if not, I'm moving to fucking Nigeria.


Notes from the video:

  • Once again, Ramit spends 10 minutes trying to explain why these fucking lessons are so important and how people who don't use them are stupid. What an asshole.
  • What are three things your client wants?
    • For the yoga thing
      • They want more steady students, i.e. people paying monthly for long term
      • They want more recognition
      • They want more re-usability of their classes
    • For the resume thing
      • They want more interviews
      • They want impressive bullet points
      • They want to stand out from the crowd
  • Features vs Benefits
    • Features are things, stuff
    • Benefits are results, what your client gets from using your product/service
    • Benefits to working with YOU
  • Rule #1: Freelancing is a relationship business
  • Write down as many benefits as you can in 2 minutes, go!
    • Higher class consumption rate = more repeat business = more money
    • Expanded reach, not just people in the area
    • More exposure
    • Higher potential
    • Increased student satisfaction
    • Better performance
  • People pay more to do it for them than to understand their problems
  • Common benefits
    • Make more money
    • Look good
    • Save time
    • Avert disaster
    • Lower risk
    • Give them an out
    • Zero management
    • Initiative
    • Long term vision
    • Understanding the business
    • Accessibility
    • Accountability
    • Clarity
    • Organization
    • Reliability
  • Now take these and come up with more benefits for your thing


One of my biggest pleasures in life is trolling. I've always been told by people who think they've elevated themselves out of the noise, the self proclaimed judges of what's right/wrong or good/bad, that I have a bad attitude. So I like to reassure everyone from time to time that yes, I embrace your opinion that I have a bad attitude, and here's some proof.

I got sucked into this facebook group for "authors," which contains a lot of digital posturing where everyone in the group, at least a few, think they are above it all. Like their writing and work is so much more important and good than the rest of the fodder that other people put out there. They all want to get published and become the next, whoever, insert some lame ass, self important writer here.

Here's the leading post...

"I don't have much time for drama queen flouncing off fb groups, but I will say that I'm too frustrated with this one to be able to stick what is effectively a parade of spam.

The endless misplaced promotion of, mostly very poor, self-published books, and the parade of 50-shades clones and religious nitwittery is just a pain when it clogs up the fb feed.
Self-publishing can clearly be a way of getting work out there - especially non-fiction -, but the reality is that the vast majority are books that are just not good enough for a mainstream publisher to look at and I just can't see the point of being on a page that seems to now be overwhelmingly about that.
it's a shame as there is a crying need for fb meeting places for writers." - Ian Richardson

I love it when digital entities lob softballs.

Day 100 - Sorry I Breathe Air & Make A Lower Salary Than You

Keep it one hundo playboy!


I woke up this morning, again, against my will. These shorter days and longer nights dictate I sleep more, but fucking modern life says, “nope, fuck you, I don’t think so.” I can’t help but think The System is designed to shuttle people from birth to death as quickly and painlessly as possible. It’s like cars and other stuff that isn’t designed to last. Their designed to fail eventually, so they can keep selling the newer models. I can feel the newer models stepping on my heels.

I took the dogs for a long walk. It was a nice morning. A little brisk, but not too bad with sweats and a long sleeve hoodie. I got back to the house, fed the dogs, did my pushups and squats and pull-ups of the day, then jumped in the shower to scrub the stink off my taint and asshole. I scrubbed extra hard this morning because it felt like it needed it. But I didn’t wash my hair. I think shampoo is slowly turning me bald. I swear my hair is thinner than it used to be, and I don’t have the bald gene.

I debated whether or not I was going to go in to the office today or work remotely. It’s an easy choice. Work remotely. Any day not spent in a brightly lit, depressing, coma inducing office is a good day. It’s like when Ice Cube doesn’t have to use his AK, today was a good day.

I’m currently sitting at the Starbuck’s watching the jobless types go about their lives. There’s so many of them. Old, young, middle aged, all looking happy that they’re not sitting in an office with a boss yelling in their face to get reports and shit done. Also cute girls. The stretch pant is on full display today. God bless America!


Have you ever been working with someone, maybe on a team, and realized at some point when your work depends on their work, that they haven't done shit? Have you ever thought something like, "do they make as much or maybe even more than me?"

It's the great inequality in the workforce. It's the reason you're not supposed to talk about salary. It's a method used to keep you repressed, an accounting trick, because it doesn't matter who actually does the labor, who puts their body through the stress and anxiety and sacrifices the hours of their life to get it down, as long as the collective gets it done. Managers can say, "see, the team produced X for Y dollars." Fuck if Paul makes $20k more than everyone yet produces 30% less.  It's the mythical lure of a higher salary, a raise, a bonus, that keeps the under earners performing.

Fuck that. I lose sight of that at times and get lost in trying to get shit done, trying to be an over performer. And it's times like these that I'm reminded that I shouldn't be striving to be the best, because the difference between the best and the absolute worst is only a couple of percentage points, if anything. It's just not worth it. So time to scale back slightly and allow the other part of the team to get exposed.


Knorbi took a big step forward today. While I was supposed to be doing slave work, I finished up some loose edges on the file handling portion of Knorbi. I'm somewhat proud of this, but I'm still caught in the thought, "is this something I should be investing my time on?" The answer is yes, because I know what a pain in the ass it is to try and write a book between a Mac and a Windows PC. The world needs this cross platform tool because the current offerings are either unreliable or fucking overblown bullshit.

So get on your knees, open wide, and feel the blast.


I learned Revocation has a new album. Yeah!

I took the dogs out for the final piss of the day, and as I was coming out of my apartment door, this cute girl was not paying attention walking towards me. When she turned around and saw me, she jumped and said, "you scared me." I smiled, thinking, "that sounds about right, sorry for existing."

Day 99 - The Fucking Creative Bug That's Sucking My Blood Like A Symbiotic Leach That I Can Never Get Rid Of


Yesterday, I was walking the dogs and saw a butterfly dying on the sidewalk. I assumed it was dying, because it was just laying there, flapping its wings a little. I picked it up and looked at it, then threw off to the side to let it continue dying. Later, I thought, "maybe I should've just squashed it or something to put it out of its misery?" But then I thought, "what if it just fell out of the cocoon and was going through the boot up sequence?" If it would've been a spider or scorpion or something, I would've squashed it without remorse. But I'm glad I let it live. It made me feel like a sort of God, or whatever. I imagine it living a kick ass life, fucking other butterflies, and becoming the most important butterfly to ever live.

I've had three things on my mind the last few days. Ebola, relationships, and little Astro, the poor abused dog that we did nothing about.

I can't help but think this Ebola thing is on the verge of becoming an epidemic. Maybe it's because it's so fucking close, like literally, right down the street from me. I seem to be hyper vigilant checking my symptoms and scoping people out when I'm out doing stuff. It's not time to panic, but if there's more and more cases, then it might be time to get the fuck out of dodge. I'm not ready to go live underground like those people in 12 Monkeys.

I got up around 7:30 am, wondered what the fuck I'm doing with my life, then took the dogs for a quick walk. It was nasty out the night before and still this morning. I hate this cloudy, rainy, coldish, bullshit weather. Where the fuck is Summer? Come back Summer!

I ate a piece of cake for breakfast, caught up on all my fantasy football failures over the weekend, then drove to work without incident. Actually, this may be the first time I've driven in without having to break out the virtual machine gun to take out my frustrations on some idiot asshole other driver. I still have little Astro on my mind. I hope he's in a better situation. I'm going to find out this weekend.


I've been doing some thinking about the whole recording yoga things. I have a logistical problem in that I can't be in two places at the same time. So, either I record only one or two sessions in a studio per week, which means I can cover more studios, or I focus all my efforts on one studio at a time. Or maybe I just set them up to record the thing on their own?

With that in mind, I've decided to also pursue the resume consultant/makeover service as well, and see which one rises to the top. Or maybe they both float to the bottom and I'll fucking get so defeated I rob a convenience store then have a shootout with the cops where they shoot me while all my friends run towards me screaming, "he's just a kid!" Remember that from that movie?

Here’s the exercise on defining my target market for the resume thing…

Target Market: Experienced developers looking for better job opportunities who would like help crafting a superior resume.

Ideal Client Profile: Developers, between 30 and 50. Married, maybe with a kid or two. They own a house. They're looking to change jobs for either a salary increase or because they hate their current situation. They've got an OK resume already and a pretty typical linkedin profile. They spend time on stack overflow. They're shy and are a little afraid to venture outside their comfort zone. In other words, they're comfortable following the same old tired resume formula, yet they hope for more interest. They're probably not seeking help, because they're engineers, they'll figure shit out on their own.


For some reason, I was looking out of my office window thinking about the ideal client profile when I got the feeling that all of this is wrong for me. I got that urge that I should be making music instead of trying to make a stupid side service business work. I get this urge at least once or twice a week.

I think I was watching this Foo Fighters video when the urge hit. It always comes on when I’m watching some of my musical heroes and I can’t help but think that I should be doing the same. I’m not jealous or anything, just envious.

I can’t help but think of #31 from Ignore Everybody. “If you have the creative bug, it isn’t ever going to go away. I’d just get used to the idea of dealing with it.” Allegedly, that’s what Tim Burton told Hugh Macleod when Hugh was wondering if he should do the whole creative thing for a living. That’s the way I feel. And it’s the fucking truth.


Fantasy football sucks bloody nut sacks. I mean, bleeding, AIDSed-up nut sacks. The first couple of weeks in the season, I couldn’t lose. Now, I can’t fucking win, although I did squeak out a win in my Yahoo league. A desperately needed win.

I ate leftover pizza for dinner. Exciting. I also sat on the couch and looked at television for the entirety of the evening. Then I went to bed. My night seemed to float by. I couldn’t tell if I was half asleep or awake or just zoned out. Probably that last one. I think it’s a symptom of needing more sleep.

Day 97 - Stupid Dirt Balls Need To Die


I took a melanin supplement last night before bed. It’s supposed to knock a person out, or more medically speaking, gently build the urge to sleep. It worked, I think, or I was just dog fucking tired.

Then the thunderstorms rolled through. The dogs hate thunder. I imagine early humans hated thunder also, because they thought it was some God trying to punish them or something. The dogs got through it though, as they always do, and I was able to sleep again.

Then the drunk idiots came out and yelled outside my bedroom window. I swear, every Friday and Saturday night, there’s at least one or two drunks who like to just stand outside my bedroom window and scream at 3 am. And every time I want to get my baseball bat and go outside to split their skulls open. I’m afraid I might kill them though, then I’d be the bad guy on the news who took out my frustrations on some poor kids who were just trying to have a good time. I’d be the guy everyone shakes their head at and says on Facebook something like, “what’s the world coming to?”

I woke up feeling somewhat refreshed. I took the dogs out intending to go on a long walk, but the fucking weather dictated I not do that. I could’ve, but I hate the cold. It wasn’t THAT cold, but you know, the first cold of the year is like, “ahhh, fuck, where’s Summer?” I cursed God for being a dildo and took the dogs back inside.

I cleaned the kitchen, which seems to be my favorite household chore. It’s relaxing in a stupid way. It feels kinda like all those mindless jobs I’ve had where I’m expected to perform a repetitious task over and over for a set amount of time. Mindless work seems to be good for the nerves. There’s no time to worry about anything. There’s no thought required to accomplish the task. It’s like an active rest. Maybe one day, when I’ve gotten over the whole extreme comfort addiction thing, I’ll go back to doing work that doesn’t require anything other than muscle memory and time.


We met this couple on a flight to Vegas a couple of months ago. Me and the dude share the same birthday, so hey, that’s a thing. I’ve never met someone who has the same birthday as me. Maybe we’d be destined to be best friends forever? Maybe even gay lovers at some point? Who knows?

We met up with them tonight as a sort of joint birthday dinner. We had a good time, talked shit about football and stuff, and blah blah blah. Who cares.

We learned they have a mother who had a stroke. The mother has a dog that they are supposed to be taking care of while the mother is gone, wherever. And also, they hate dogs and wish the mother’s dog was dead, and probably secretly wish the mother was dead also. OK, looks like this will be the last time we/I hang out with them, because I am an animal lover and don’t understand people who just hate animals because.

They mention they keep the dog in the garage, because they don’t want it in the house and the backyard isn’t suitable either, so the garage is the best place for the dog. No big deal. I know plenty of folks who keep their dog in the garage, especially when the weather starts getting cooler.

We get back to their house after dinner and my girlfriend insists on seeing this dog. We go out to the garage and the dog is in a crate in the corner of the garage. Hmmm. The lady opens the crate and says she’s kept this filthy dog in the crate all day. She’s left him in there for almost 24 hours. No water. No bathroom breaks. In the dark. In the garage. My blood pressure rises just a bit. How fucking stupid and callous can a person be?

She opens the cage door and this little tiny dog pokes it head out, then goes right back inside. It’s terrified. It stinks like piss. There’s no blankets or towels or anything in the cage for this dog to lay on. It’s clearly pissed and shit in its cage, meaning it’s been left in there an excessive amount of time. It wants to come out, but it’s too scared. There’s no water in sight, no food, no nothing.

I go back in the house shell shock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen cruelty like that up close. It was almost too much to take. And if I hand’t been in their home, I might’ve killed them both on the spot. And they kept going on and on about how they don’t want to have to take care of the dog, and the mother who owns the dog doesn’t take good care of it, and blah blah blah.

My girlfriend takes the dog out of the cage and out in the yard so it can at least pee and poop. I didn’t go with her. It was too much for me to take. She said the dog peed for about a minute and then pooped a big one and seemed relieved to be out of the cage.

Neither of us slept very well last night thinking of little Astro.We decided we needed to do something about it, but we’re not quite sure what. I think our first goal is getting the dog out of the situation it’s in. Whether it’s taking him ourselves and finding it a better home or reporting them to whoever deals with animal cruelty. If I had my way, I’d do both, and I’d put each one of them in a cage without water or food or bedding or a bathroom and see how they feel after 24+ hours.

Day 96 - The Golden Uterus Baby

On October 10, 1972, my mother squirted me out. I weighed something like 10 lbs. The doctor said it was mostly penis weight. Actually, he didn’t say that. He said something like, “good lord, what is this?” Nothing in my life has changed much since.

I would go on to have a typical childhood. I went to a regular elementary school, where I befriended what I later found out was the fat kid, Jerry. I still remember his name and his fat face and his greasy curly blonde hair. I also remember wanting to be just like him. His jeans creased just perfect where his butt met his legs, and I always strived to get that look. But I was too skinny. My jeans looked like tents on my legs.

Jerry was the leader of the group I aligned myself with. We went to six flags together. But sometimes he chose to take a different friend of his, as some kind of weird adolescent psychological strategy, which would make me jealous. Just the reaction he was going for. Because later, he would try to pit me against the other guys in his crew, trying to get us to fight each other. I did fight once, and lost. I was doing good until I went to my knees for some reason and the other kid kicked my in the stomach.I stopped hanging out with Jerry and his crew after that.

My parents moved us to the country when I was starting junior high. I had to go to a new school, with different kids who had been growing up together since birth. They were tight, BFFs. I didn’t fit in well at first. I hated those years.

In high school, I graduated from hanging out with the lowly crowd to hanging out with the medium tier crowd. The medium tier is where I’ve remained so far, with occasional flirts with the upper tier, but never once coming close to the elite tier. I made decent grades, graduated, and drifted for a while from job to job until returning to college around 24 years old.

I graduated college, got a job, and here I am. About 14 years has passed since I got my degree and not much has happened, outside of drunken rampages, pathetic sexual encounters, and the occasional moments of clarity. I’ve been living a normal, ordinary, boring life, which, to me, feels not OK. It sounds arrogant, but I feel like I should’ve been something more than just another person occupying a seat at the Starbucks. Like I should’ve become an important musician or famous artist or something.

I suppose I’ve had the opportunities, but never really made a real attempt because of fear. Just general fear. the kind they teach you in school and the kind they use to control you in adulthood.

But I have no complaints. Being ordinary and normal is pretty great. It’s comfortable at least. And maybe it’s just not my time yet. Who knows. All I can do is keep plugging away.

Day 95 - Impaled On The Digital Void


There's this game for the iPhone called Two Dots. It's the new Angry Birds. If you don't know what either of those games are, then congratulations, you're living life the right way, like a normal, well adjusted creature who isn't constantly wrapped up in distracting, life sucking activities.

Anyway, I've been playing this game religiously for the last couple of weeks. I started my day today, laying in bed at 5 am, playing a round or two. I see dots in my dreams. It's infected my brain to the point I think it's fucking up my sleep. But who fucking cares, I love it. It's worth the destruction of my health to get in a game or two. #YOLO

I finally rolled out of bed around 6 am, feeling good about the day. But also feeling that little thing that I'm not sure how to describe. It's that feeling you get when you know you need a change in lifestyle, but you're not quite executing the change or making much of effort to effect the change. I talked about this a little bit on Monday about my Quest For Abs  which was supposed to start this week, but since it's my birthday, I decided to punt off the start date to this coming Saturday, the day after my birthday. So I've been feeling that twinge of "guilt," for lack of a better word, for the better part of the week. I guess my desire to not be a soft slob is not enough to overcome the pain of the actual effort it's going to take to change. I still hold out hope that this year will be different.

I took the dogs for a quick walk, avoiding the hypodermic needles laying on the sidewalk unattended. It's reassuring that the very expensive apartment building I pay to live in has either an illicit drug addict or two, and/or a diabetic, or someone practicing medicine on the side of the road. I kicked the needle into the street and kept walking.

I got back, fed the dogs, made myself some bacon, eggs, chicken sausage, and an avocado for breakfast. Then I took a shower, carefully lathering my nut sack area and making extra scrubs across my anal region, for undisclosed reasons, then got dressed and drove to work. I sat in traffic on the tollway, a road I pay to drive on regardless of the efficiency it's supposed to provide me. I thought about the whole Ebola thing again and how it's more than highly likely that something equivalent will be a thing that cleanses the human population. And I further thought about how important it is, right now, to get my body into shape just in case such a scenario plays out and I have to lead an army of survivors against the mutated undead kangaroo people.


Tonight, I ventured to the local hockey arena and took in a game of professional hockey. The first game of the 2014-2015 season for my hometown Dallas Stars. They lost, in overtime, in a shootout.

I didn’t stay for the shootout. I left at the end of regulation. I paid $120 to stand in a square at the top of a section right behind a row of grown mens who were taller than me. They weren’t really taller than me, it just seemed that way because when they stood, they blocked my view of the rink, which I was forced to look down on. When are we going to build an arena where we look up to watch the action? I don’t know. Probably never because Earth sucks.

I witnessed an interesting phenomenon. Since the digital age, the age of the personal communication device, everyone now experiences most of their life through the digital portal. I include myself in that category, but it seems the younger you are, the more time you spend staring into your device.

Anyway, when the mens in front of me stood at the exciting moments of the game, they immediately took out their phones and stared at them. It’s like they were splitting their attention between cheering for the home team to score a thing that makes us win and doing whatever, texting, checking Twitter/facebook, griming (aka posting to Instagram), etc. I found it incredible that a real life sporting event, featuring the best of the best athletes from around the world, are competing in an arena on ice, doing amazing athletic things, and the tiny screen of the communication thing is more interesting.

I’m as guilty as anyone of spending way too much time staring into the digital void. I’m doing it now, while writing this, but isn’t things that are happening live, in person,more interesting than reading that text from your buddy that says, “I’m totally stoned playing Halo while jerking off to a girl shitting into a guy’s mouth.” That’s a better thing to experience than a small group of guys on ice doing amazing things with their bodies?

On a positive note, I was standing feet from the cheerleaders, who seem to have two moves. The first is just moving from side to side in a bubbly, bouncy fashion. The other is quickly bending over and slowly standing up. Like every generic stripper move you’ve seen in every movie that features a stripper. Yes, hot young girls contorting their bodies in a vague sexual manner is WAY more interesting than a bunch of dudes running into each other on ice.

Day 94 - A Terd Between The Tits


Blasted awake at 5 am. I laid in bed for 30 minutes trying to go back to sleep. It was no use. I got up and started the broken routine, which is becoming my new routine. Walk the dogs, wonder around the house wondering what to do, shower the anus, drive to work, be productive.


On the drive to work, I had an idea for a book or TV series. It’s going to be called, Let’s Drive To Work. The premise revolves around a guy who has to drive to work every day, sometime in the near future, where highways are almost fully automated. I can already here the sound of eyeballs across the nation shutting in unison and moving on to the next thing that might be something good to use as a distraction.

He’s like a zombie. Everyone in this world is. Every episode, he drives to work and we learn something new about the future he lives in. Like, we learn that there’s a syndicate of anonymous, former heroes, who single handedly eliminated organized crime and terrorism, but then some of them broke off and became a new version of organized crime, because they can build super intelligent robots, more intelligent than the regular robots normal people own. They’re at war with each other, kinda. It’s hard to distinguish who the good guys and bad guys are. It’s hinted at that it’s just one person, or something, but it’s just sort of thrown out there as a tease and never really pans out (i.e. we never figure out who this person, or persons, are). And maybe, on occasion, the story paths cross.


Today was a beat down day. That means that I had to go sit in a meeting for 3 hours and justify my existence to my masters. And others get to sit around and make money while judging my value as an employee. It’s all part of the plan.

I couldn’t help but think, as I always do during beat down days, that enslavement has come such a long way. Our man in the future will be an even bigger slave than me. He probably won’t get to spend his money freely. He’ll probably be directed through almost every instance of life. From what time to get up, to what, when, and where to eat, to when to go to the bathroom. And he won’t think anything of it. It’ll all be normal. He’ll quip about one day not being able to think of a naked girl’s tits whenever he wants. Those tits will come at pre-programmed intervals, and will be a pair that is not of his choosing, like some sort of advanced matrix-like simulation.

During the beat down, I did make a joke about terds (aka floaters) that was a big hit with everyone but the only girl in the meeting. Girls just aren’t dumb enough to understand scat humor.


Error handling is one of those things that likes to curl up inside my head and slowly eat my brain, like a parasite or the Ebola virus. I hate thinking about it. I hate implementing. I hate every aspect of it. Why can't programming just not have that as a thing? Like, why can't we build a thing where it never fails, under no circumstances short of an act of God? One day, maybe, the world will be as perfect as I demand it to be.

Until then, I gotta deal with the shit. Qt doesn't seem to support exception handling very well. It's more of a set an error code and go through a giant switch after every method call. Actually, it's not that ridiculous. It's more like a yes or no type thing. Yes, everything went as planned, or No, something went wrong but we're not going to tell you specifically, but rest assured, something ain't right, so...

The good thing is Qt does allow the programmer (that would be me) to implement an exception handling system for dealing with error conditions, which is what I've chosen to do because I love exceptions. They may be slow, but if they're done right, they should only happen under exceptional situations, as an unexpected operation that requires some fall back action, which may be as simple as making a log entry and telling the user something went wrong and they should lean back in their recliner and kill themselves.

My method, on the surface, is going to be to throw errors, then define a centralized error processing system to deal with them, and maybe even, in the future, try to recover from them without alerting the user. I was inspired reading this paper, written by two people I have never heard of. (I didn't read it all, just the beginning, but I plan on reading it all, one day.)