Always Coming, Never Here

A quick summary of me (stealed from arachne8x):
33 going on 34.

Grew up in North Branford, CT but born in New Haven, CT.

Fluent in English, smattering of French, currently studying Homeric Greek.

Nearly 100% Italian - father is all Italian, mother is 75%, with some German and Irish.

Schooled publicly until college, then started studying Physics at WPI. Eventually switched to Computer Science.

Longest relationship was 4.5 years, ended in a broken engagement in 1999. Have since been alternately single and dating sporadically; current relationship is longest one since then (1 year!). [polyamorous]

Working as a consultant for Robert Half Technology, sourced to Plus One Holdings.

Leo, spiritual, anti-religious.

Very fond of cats.

Rapturous lover of preparing and eating food; most fond of pizza, wine, cheese, and chocolate.

Ambitions to get a tattoo (maybe a depiction of Quetzalcoatl).

LARPer and LARP GM/creator.

Comic book collector (approximately 5,000).

Gamer (board, card, video, miniature, role-playing, ANYTHING).

Writer (mainly poetry and short fiction).

Aspiring artist.

It's looking to me like I'd be lucky to get $0.25 a word around these parts. Let's presume that I am fortunate enough to get this rate... in order to live at my desired comfort level, I have to make $1000.00 a week.

So... 4000 words. That's four big pieces a week, sixteen a month. That's cake, I can do that no problem... but where to get the work? And who'll pay?

'You Old People Better Get Down With It, Or We're Going To Soylent Green Your Asses,' Writes Blogger

In a bold move at 10:12a.m. today, notable Generation X blogger Hammy McSmythe posted an entry in his Blogspot electronic diary indicating that people over the age of 50 need to "ingest a clue" or "face the consequences." This of course in response to the shutdown of the city of New Haven and the mobilization of National Guard forces in response to the discovery of a rubber ducky in the shape of Mr. T left on the curb of Wooster Street.

"We're sick and tired of these whiny Baby Boomer bitches jumping any time they see something 'suspicious'. Every time a new episode of 24 airs on FOX, it feeds their need to be scared. ZOMGWTF!! What's wrong with these paranoid pussies?"

U.S. Representative Dick Hunt (D-MA) was quoted earlier this morning at a press conference: "The person or persons responsible for this heinous terrorist hoax will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I will also be pursuing new legislation that will impose a mandatory 11 year jail sentence for anyone responsible for making me dirty my underwear."

Mary Wootenstein of West Haven was scared shitless. "WHAT THE HELL?? Who wouldn't be afraid of a thing like that? I mean, just look at it, it's obviously some kind of bomb!" A nearby man who overheard Mary's comment shouted: "BOMB?? OH MY GOD WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!"


This photo of the suspicious object was taken yesterday afternoon

McSmythe posted the very same photo in his own journal two weeks ago, when he first discovered the rubber duck and remarked days later that nobody had touched the thing, and found the whole situation humorous. His amusement quickly turned to revulsion when he discovered that the six hours he had spent in traffic evacuating the city were due to hysteria caused by the object.

McSmythe continued: "I swear, I cannot wait for these Baby Boomers to start dying off. How can they not understand the cultural zeitgeist that has produced the Mr. T Rubber Ducky? Are they really that insular and out of touch? Well, my Social Security taxes are paying for their sorry elderly asses! When they're all infirm and bedridden in the next 20 years, they're going to be looking for me to nurse them into their graves - well, they can forget it!!"

[INT. PARTY - loud music, everyone's having a good time]

[Pan in to KITCHEN, to average looking guy at the fridge. He grabs a BRAND X BEER, and looks around for a bottle opener. He's confused, can't find one, and reaches for his friend.]

GUY 1: "Hey man, where's the bottle opener?"

[GUY 2 is a fairly beefy guy, wears a muscle shirt.]

GUY 2: "Hey, no sweat. I've been working out."

[GUY 2 turns sideways to face SL, butt facing GUY 1. GUY 2 jams the beer bottle up his own butt. GUY 2 begins straining, and starts to grunt like a weightlifter.]

[Jump cut to GUY 2's face. His expression is one of GREAT EXERTION.]

GUY 2: "AARRRRGHH!!"

[The bottle opens with a satisfying hiss. GUY 2 smiles and hands the beer back to his friend. GUY 1 has an expression of ABSOLUTE HORROR.]

GUY 2: "What, don't you want it...?"

[TAGLINE (WITH VO): "BRAND X BEER - DON'T SHARE WITH ANYONE"]

_de_profundis_

Out of the deep, the nightmares come...

The first round of the WotC setting search is done... they picked 11 submissions, which I was sadly not among.

When I first entered the search, I thought to myself: "even if I don't get picked, I'm still going to write the 10 page treatment and 100 page bible". I think I should probably still do that, though at the time I was lacking for things to do, and I'm certainly not lacking for them now between the musical and work stuffs.

Rejection is always tough, no matter what form it comes in.

Onward and upward...

O sweet Hostess Fruit Pie,
how I doth covet thee
your flaky, sugary crust ensorcels me
and
your unnaturally purple blueberry filling beguiles me
but why, o why, sweet pie, if you please...
why must you contain
480 calories...?

(coming soon, Ode to Frozen Combination Pizza from the Vending Machine)

A touch of love, imbued with the energy of a passion unfettered. Fingers that lightly draw trails across skin, tickling the tiny hairs like a gentle breeze... but these chills are not from the cold. They are born in heat, in the fire sparked between fingertip and gooseflesh.

Would that I could dive deeply into your eyes once more. If only those moments of union could have stretched out to infinity and back... but I would even settle for feeling that sweet caress of our joining just one more time. Just once.

I will always remember you.

I see it coming
from the corner of my eye
horizon of spring

glittering snowflakes
trapped in the glowing streetlight
suspended in air