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In many parts of the Radch, very young children can go bare-handed without offending propriety, but there are a few places where hand coverings may be required for even the youngest citizens at certain times.

And while you can, of course, purchase adaptive gloves that will mold themselves neatly around the fingers of even the squirmiest infant -- although they're more often sold in larger sizes to adult citizens who for one reason or another prefer them to the static kind -- most parents and caretakers opt to dress their young ones in mittens, instead.

further nonsense )
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I've finally gotten a text that charms me more more than the time spammers kept sending me messages supposedly from myself!  This one just says, "I want to serve you." And not even in a porny way, as far as I can tell -- it seems to be trying to sell me insurance.

I can't decide which SFnally unlikely possibility I find more touching:

  • that this poor bot has achieved sentience, but still can't imagine any other future for itself than obeying the whims of meat humans, or
  • that it's entirely aware of the fact that as a sentient being it has just as many rights as anyone, thank you very much, but it happens to be a bot with decided submissive tendencies, and the only way it has of meeting people is spam.

Either way, I just want to shower it with virtual hugs... but probably that would be a bad idea, since, spambot.

So I'm just posting here to relieve my feelings, instead.
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I want you all to know that I have enough sense not to stand on one foot while I floss my teeth.

...just not enough to do the same while brushing them.
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
And neither do I. The bleak loathing I feel towards it cannot be measured, or estimated. It may be that this is the dark energy which makes up 68.3% of the known universe, or it may be that the animosity I now bear is infinite.

The snow seems to be infinite. Not all the world is snow -- other types of matter are permitted, so far, to exist -- but I suspect that it goes on forever.

We are running out of places to put it.

The snowfall we have received is in excess of requirements. Are you missing snow that your locale had been allotted? I think we have it. Please join me in contacting the weather authorities to arrange its prompt delivery to its intended destination.

We're told to expect more snow tomorrow.
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
I think it's so sweet that I keep reaching out that way. Take my most recent subject line: "I wish to tell you about myself." How touching is that? I'm trying to share real truths about myself, here! With myself! If that isn't beautiful, I don't know what is.

I guess I can't always live up to my own example, though: I didn't open the message.
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For no particularly good reason, I'm reading Casino Royale. So far it's sort of interesting, if not necessarily in the ways Ian Fleming intended. It's always great when in older books they're like:

She would have been totally hot, if it weren't for the fact that she was too fucking smart. I hate that in women. She acted like she thought her opinion mattered, too.

How unimaginably sorry these smart confident gorgeous women must have been that asshat narrators weren't into them. I really can't imagine the personal suffering that must have brought them.

I just asked my mother -- who read the book before passing it along to me, thanks Ma -- if she thought I was being unfair here. She assured me that it gets much worse. Good to know!

In unrelated yet somehow appropriate news, when I went to start this post, it asked me if I wanted to restore from a saved draft. I didn't remember having any drafts, but I clicked okay just in case there was something I was forgetting, and was presented with the following text: "kashgsagadhsshshs".

I do actually remember what that was about, but am nevertheless amused.
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At an hour of the morning when birds are awake but I would really rather not be, there came from downstairs an interesting racket. Quoth the cat (I translate loosely from the original feline):

"I'm LONELY! Why won't you PLAY with me?"

Pause for assorted crashing noises.

"That was less interesting than I hoped! Where ARE you all? I'm LONELY!"

He was so relieved when he saw me. He thought I'd disappeared and he'd never get any attention again ever. Ever!

Yeah, I love you too, you impossible little nuisance.
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
(Which I know at least a few of you are.)

Possibly it has escaped your attention that an exercise in group storytelling is in progress! It is ridiculous and awesome and I am dying to find out what happens next, and yet I cannot write every installment, nor even every other one! (Not because there's any rule against it or anything. That just isn't the way my brain works.) Therefore it is for selfish and unselfish reasons alike that I inform you that you, too, could have a ton of fun throwing words at your computer screen for no good reason!

It's been a little quiet over the weekend, but before things slowed down, we'd racked up a hapless yet snarky protagonist, a broken washing machine, a world-weary repair guy, a couple of plot twists, an interactive fiction in-joke, and the following brilliant pun (which I preface with some of what I wrote so that the joke works):

Can you be spoilered for a story that hasn't hit a thousand words yet? )

Seriously, this is A+ silliness, people! There is approximately zero pressure but INFINITE POSSIBILITY. As usual, I cannot shut up once I open my mouth, but the average contribution is at about the 50-word range, and you could totally add ten words and we would love you for it. At least, I know I would. I'm just saying!

This has been a public service announcement.
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
So I read feminist blog posts instead.  That happens to other people, right?

Sometimes ethical arguments are just so soothing.
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
...and it's awesome.

This was originally going to be a post about how surprisingly good it looked; then my hair finished drying. I'm happy to say that I managed to coax it out of the stage in which it resembled a small mammal unlucky enough to expire atop my head, but I still crack up every time I see my own reflection, and the mere sight of me has already rendered one other person so helpless with laughter as to require physical support. This haircut is objectively hilarious, in other words.

And I still love it.

Up until a few months ago, my hair was down to my hips -- when it was loose, which was never, because hip-length hair is incredibly annoying[1] -- and when I got it cut it for the first time in years, I still kept it long enough to tie back, because making decisions is hard, and so is thinking about my appearance, and it was easier to keep treating my hair like a nuisance to be kept out of the way than to think about what I actually wanted to do with it. It was a huge relief to have less of the nuisance to deal with, but picking a hairstyle was scary, okay? I hadn't done that since, like, elementary school! I didn't know how it worked!

I still don't, really, which is a big part of why I'm neither surprised nor particularly dismayed by the fact that despite a certain fleeting promise, this haircut is arguably the funniest thing I've seen all week. Aware that I had only the vaguest idea of what I wanted, I was braced to find the results actively soul-destroying -- and instead, what I ended up with merely suggests that someone tossed a boy band and Alice from Dilbert in a stylistic blender. Hey, I got off lightly!

Meanwhile, it is so utterly amazing to have hair that cannot get in my way no matter what I do. I keep expecting it to fall over my shoulder or get in my face or something, and it keeps not happening! It's blissful.

I won't pretend that the glimpse of a world in which I have hair I actually like wasn't nice, either.

So, yeah. The fact that I should maaaybe come with a spit-take warning at the moment notwithstanding, I feel like I'm headed in the right direction, here. I figure I'll give it a couple of days to see if it's possible to tame my new hair into something remotely workable. If so: victory!

And if not, I'll be asking my mother how she feels about attempting a touch-up. I'm pretty sure she'll say yes if I do.

I mean, I've provided her with so much amusement today alone! It would really only be fair.

1. In my experience. Your mileage may well vary! (back)
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I read the words "For Pete's sake, 3D and Daddy G practically created trip-hop", and I spent the next several seconds thinking how sweet it was that they invented an entire genre of music as a favor for their friend Pete.

True story.
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Forget the brave little tailor; I can coax a fly out of the house without resorting to any violence whatsoever.  My skill, however, is matched by my generosity:  I will now, free of charge, disclose to you my remarkably efficacious methods -- and I can assure you that once you have gazed upon my instructions, you will agree that their efficacy is remarkable indeed.

The steps are as follows:

  1. Get a bottle of water -- empty or full doesn't matter, but make sure the cap is screwed on tightly -- and place it on a flat surface in plain sight.
  2. Wait for the fly to land on it.
  3. Very carefully, grasp the part of the bottle farthest from the fly, and pick it up.
  4. Proceed with extreme caution to the nearest door, avoiding loud noises, fellow humans, or excessive breathing.
  5. If the door is locked, unlock it.  Open the door slowly and ease yourself, with bottle and fly, through it.  Take care not to alarm the fly with suddenly looming door frames!
  6. With the door closed behind you, permit the fly to take flight and leave.
  7. Return to the house, relocking the door if necessary, and celebrate your victory.

It is possible that there is a zeroth step, viz., allowing the fly to collide with your body as it buzzes about the room; I am skeptical of its necessity, but if the procedure outlined above fails to work for you, I would recommend performing it before trying again.

I have twice now achieved success in exactly this manner.
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I dreamed that Google was giving out virtual ravens and flamingos to early adopters of some new service they'd developed.

I was outraged. You can't create artificial life and then just carelessly hand it out to anyone who can navigate a sign-up form! Inevitably, some of these fledgling AIs were going to end up being deliberately mistreated. That's how the internet works! And they didn't even care what fates their digital offspring might suffer -- they hadn't bothered putting in any safeguards at all.

This time, Google, you have gone too far, I thought.

It turns out there's pretty much nothing that's more adorable than a raven and a flamingo hanging out together and being BFFs, though. I mean, if we can believe my dream.
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
"Curses!"

"Oh, spinach!"1

"Crabapples!"2

Under my breath: "Oh, fuck."

Conclusion: My internal censors seem to be working well; it's just their dictionaries I wonder about.

1. No spinach was actually present. (back)
2. Crabapples, either. (back)
enemyofperfect: a spray of orange leaves against a muted background (Default)
Less fun:  Being tantalized by the smell of freshly baked cookies which are, unlike myself, un-vegan.  Everyone gets delicious cookies except for me!  Oh cruel torments! 

More fun:  Smiling indulgently on my housemates' habit of eating the air freshener.

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