"Yule Log," You'll Blog

"If he was listening it would defeat the purpose,
Not a dolphin, but a porpoise."

-D. Alexander Naylor

...

The final wave of presents I purchased for the Mrs. arrived in he mail today, and amidst much sturm und screaming, Christmas is upon us. I really, really can't wait for Christmas, mostly because I really enjoy Christmas, but also because I would enjoy not having to use the presents we bought for each other as bargaining chips in our scuffles anymore. I remember vividly when I wrote about Christmas last year, and it's a hell of a thing to still be doing this. Most of my analog attempts at keeping a journal ended... well, they just ended. I stopped writing and found better ways to express myself (just as well since, going over them today, they're mostly about who was dating who, and why it bothered me in different ways). This, however, has found long-life, either through its intrinsically interactive medium, the variety of expression available within it, or with the advent of that most important facet of the 20th century: the audience.

I wonder if I'd still be doing this if there weren't at least two people who I knew for sure were reading this thing. My thought is I probably would, if only out of the small chance that someone might stumble upon it (as some have done before) and read the madness inherent of which I record here. I wonder how long this whole thing would be if I compiled it into one document. Could I make a book? I tend to be long-winded in these entries, but by the same token I tend to update fairly sparsely, preferring instead to allow my thoughts and musings to collect and congeal. Something to think about.

I suppose it's fair game to say now that I have a new job, officially severing the Center from my life (save for its continued involvement with my mother, my brother, my good friend, and my one true love... I will never be free of its royal-blue grasp) and moving securely into the realm of making tons of money for much less work. Fuck you, Discovery Science Center. Fuck your non-functional cube, fuck your bullshit fair-weather policies, and fuck your ridiculous prices on astronaut ice cream. Fuck you.

Now that I'm no longer attempting to hide the identity of that particular shit-in-the-pan, my new place of employ will be referred to as the Tower, as my position is that of an appications instructor inside the corporate office of a computer learning center. Pretty awesome, and pretty much what I've been doing for the past five-to-six years, when you really think about it. I'm only working for two days a week, which totally mesh with my schedule (well... now that I've hammered my schedule around the two days) and I have the weekend... get this... FREE. Saturdays and Sundays are mine. The Mrs.? Entire days together. The zoo, the park, anything. War? No problem. Practice? I'll be there. Might even start my own on Saturdays. All of these benefits to my new job and this:

I make more money in one day at the Tower than I did in two weeks at the Center.

And I reiterate: Fuck you guys, you motherfucklers.
When I first lost my job at the Center (or when I was "encouraged to quit," if you want to be technical) I was really broken up about it. My Mrs. did everything she could for me. She told a friend of ours to help me out, she put up with my moping, she picked up all the tabs, she told me that I shouldn't feel bad, that my next job would be so much better. Well, she was right. And I spend my time fighting with her. And that's such a waste.

I love you, tweeter. You did more for me than anyone else did.

Anyone.

No one means more to me than you. No one means anything compared to you. Hopefully, in the coming months, I can start to make up for the last few. I love you, and if I never did before, thank you.

...

I conquered Myst III: Exile in just two days. I wonder if it's because the boys and I already played through it, though I honestly can't remember really playing any of it (very little) and I think I was gone for most of the action. Maybe I was asleep or something. Maybe it was just a really long time ago. I honestly couldn't tell you. What I do know is that I blazed through that fucker, and seemingly without the knowledge of how each of the puzzles worked. Maybe on some level I did retain a lot of the answers... or maybe I'm a genius beyond reckoning. Or maybe, just maybe, Exile isn't that great when compared to the other Myst games. I'm going to have a little fun with Riven now. I'm trying to amp myself up for the other two that I haven't played.

The original plan was that my friends and I would play through these new games together, as we had in the past. We'd worked our way through Myst and through Riven, and I was there for Exile, at least parts of it, and it seems almost like a betrayal that I would want to play the games without the others with me... but I doubt very much if they see it that way. I attach mindless sentiment to things all to easily, all to readily. A story about me crying as a child when forced to discard a pencil I'd sharpened down to the eraser's metal casing after months of use. At least I got to say goodbye. That pencil still haunts me to this day.

...

IN OTHER NEWS!...


Let's alternate between blue and pink! Most of the girls will be wearing pink, oh, and put on your nice tie! Let's all wear jeans! Tyler, why are you wearing shorts? Can't you wear jeans like us, so we all match? Why must you always be the black sheep?

White people.

Honestly.

Thanksgiving at my house involves two whole turkeys, screaming across the table to be heard over the din, and knife-fighting. I imagine the Thanksgiving above featured a quiet and dignified prayer, strained conversation at the dinner table, some sobbing after the stuffing was not properly complimented, and everyone going their separate ways just before the vein on Tom's head leaped into the cranberry sauce. Holidays!