Life

Too busy with my own life. Too busy to care about you.

Hell is cold, not hot.

Public Transportation has got to be a kind of bane. After taking care of all my plans yesterday, the only way to get to work was to catch the bus. I could do that, not really a big deal. The sun caressed my face, and I thought of how nice it was outside. I caught my first bus and got off at my transfer point. Then I waited, and waited, and waited. It almost seem like some sort of divine punishment. The air around me took a huge temperature dive and I was pretty sure it was close to zero degrees. Thankfully it was not windy. I pulled out a book and began to read. Anything to take my mind off the cold. I had to stop every five minutes and jitter for a bit before going back to the book. Then it hit me. I had an urgent need to relieve myself, and the cold was not helping. It was sharp and it stabbed my bladder hard. I kept reading though. To mock me, the wind picked up and I became glad that most of my hands were bandaged. My fingers tuned the pages like ice picks stabbing into the only obvious ting they are supposed to strike into. Then it got dark, and I cursed no one but myself. See my trench coat has linings that attach and zip up on the inside. They make me uncomfortably hot when I wear them with the coat. How I wished I had them in now. The need to go ease myself was stronger now. For a picosecond I contemplated doing it right then and there. The heat would surely warm my legs up. There was that whole unsanitary issue and the fact that it would get cold and make it worse. I beheld my watch and two hours had passed. I lit up a cigarette, which is the hardest thing on the planet to do when your fingers are bandaged, shaking and frost bitten. No sooner than I got it lit though, the bus pulled around the corner. Never again I said. I swung to the back of the bus where it was closer to the engine, in hopes that I would get warm quicker. I continued my book and wondered how often greyhound busses leave their terminals. Surely it's more often reliable and often than this bus I was currently riding.

I must extend a warm thank you to Randi (sektie) for sending me a card for valentines, however late my thanks are.

Impaired

My hands are not able to type properly. They are physically impaired, stemming from issues stated in my last post. I shall update properly when I can type with more than three fingers.

With the lack of emotional stability.

My current emotions, refuse to allow me the freedom to write anything here today.

April Fools?

So we have the dreaded day upon us. I need meander over to my local florist and buy some flowers for Cookie. If you believe that I call her Cookie as an affectionate name, you would be very mistaken. Her real name is Cookie and she is aptly named well. Upon sight of this Cookie person you will begin to understand what I mean. Imagine your grandmother is going to make you chocolate chip cookies (bear with me here and pretend), she's got all the constituents. Everything is mixed up and ready to be baked. Oh yes the thought of those warm cookies and the smell they would create peaks your interest does it not? Now just before you she can pour the globs of dough embedded with chocolate chip chunks, a herd of rabid raccoons (I say herd because I don't exactly know what that many raccoons would be considered), storms into you grandmothers house, clawing at everything forcing her to evacuate. Animal control is called and the whole place is evacuated of rabid raccoons. Six hours later you grandmother returns in and finds everything chewed up. The bastards even chewed up on the edges of the cupboards and doors. The cookie dough is filled with fur and what looks to be some kind of raccoon sacrificial act. Desperate, she scrapes all the fur out and whatever else the raccoons have left in there. She salvages enough to make exactly one cookie. So she bakes it. Like my grandmother does, she leaves it close to the window to cool down. You with your impeccable timing, walk in just in time and are welcomed by your grandmother. You smell cookies and instinctively know where to look. Upon reaching the window, you find a chipmunk munching on one end of the only cookie. You proceed to shoo it away and pick up the cookie and the half the chipmunk was masticating on, magically falls off. In your hands you have a fallen, hard, crusty, furry, and still warm cookie. Imagine what that cookie looks like? Yes you can see it now. That is what Cookie's face looks like. Add to that look, the high pitched whine that TV's make and you have an example of her voice. I have to buy her flowers today as part of an elaborate scheme, Samantha and I have set up for our own hilarity and celebration of valentines day.

Woe unto thee .htaccess!

I have never ever used .htaccess in my life, maybe it's because everyone hosted me. Now that I am my own host however and I'm hosting people I am forced to use it. Everyone I have turned to for help refered me over to my cpanel. Powweb in their great genius and infinite wisdom however, decided to use a custom, self built, control panel. Slaving my ass off I tried making subdomains ala this blog and another page. However Powweb as great as it is, does not have a cpanel for setting up subdomains! I actually have to use .htaccess which I had to write myself. I know nothing about this htaccess thing. I have been in webdev for quite a while and I have never had to worry about it. Powweb in their incalculable genius have chosen not to give help for htaccess and crons themselves. To subdomain properly, I have had to rewrite my .htaccess file several times and I would love to let you know that, htaccess is the most retarded thing on the planet and I have seen no sense in it. I have succeeded however, blog.hookshot.net lives.

Error

Someone seems to have made a mistake and has setup a blog for himself. Oops!