O Fate, how you tempt me.
kitten   April 27, 2002

I was feeling particularly bored today; such is the usual course of events. If I didn't have to give breakfast to Molly I probably wouldn't bother waking up on the weekends.

At least the weather is okay. For once. Most people hate this kind of weather - it's about seventy degrees out, totally overcast and melancholy and if it were just a bit colder out, I'd almost say I feel good about it.

Unfortunately, the mercury is going to soar back to eighty fucking degrees and higher for the rest of the week and probably not abate until, oh.. September.

Everything's gone green. I'm more a winter and autumn person, myself - when everything is either dying or dead.

Do I sound goth? Perhaps. I tested my gothness the other day by consuming three cans of Red Bull energy drink. I did not grow wings.

As I suspected, the lord of darkness cannot grow wings.

I've got the door to the balcony wide open providing a decent view of the forest beyond the parking lot. I've no idea how far back these woods extend, but the effect, from this viewpoint, is quite nice.

So I decide that to alleviate some of my terminal boredom and stress I'm going to go shoot things.

I take my little BB pistol and ammo into the woods, load a clip of BBs and a fresh CO2 cartidge, and take aim at a tree off in the distance.

The millisecond I flick off the safety and start to squeeze the trigger, I hear the high-pitched squealing of three or four little brats running around in the parking lot. So I wait - it's only a BB gun, sure, but it's damn loud, and looks very much like a Walther PPK. The last thing I need is for these shits to go running to mommy saying there's some lunatic dressed in black in the woods waving a gun around.

So I wait a few seconds and they're all still screaming at each other and then they start slamming a car door. Repeatdly. Over and over and over and over. And over.

And over.

And how did they open the car door? Well, apparently they've got the little remote unlocker-clicky-alarm thing, so now they're playing with that, too.
I hardly need to rehash here my utter loathing and black hatred of children.

But c'mon. Isn't it interesting how they chose to do this - obviously just to annoy me - during the one time I'm holding a goddamned gun? Just a BB gun to be sure, but it happens to be a rather powerful BB gun. It can break glass from a distance - I have no doubt it could inflict serious injury on small children.

And once I thought about it, I'm deep enough in the woods that they can't see me, and I'm somewhat camoflauged from wearing black.. but I can see them. Have a nice clear shot, too..

Fate tempts me sometimes.

Fortunately, Jesus was With Me Always so I shot him instead.

Irony can be a bitch.
kitten   April 25, 2002

Bryan was sorting through today's logs and came across a site called shades of gray which linked back to us. Nobody here as ever heard of her, so he started poking around and seeing what the site was about, you know, just for curiosities sake.

[harb] http://www.jagyd.com/imo/writings/index.html || Read the first story.
[kitten] I'm looking.
[kitten] ER.
[kitten] THAt'S MINE.
[kitten] wtf

Yeah, that's right. kitten got ripped off. Take a look at my original post and then look at hers. She changed "kitten" to "Slater", but other than that, it's verbatim.

Needless to say, I am unhappy about this.

The real irony is that at the bottom of every page on her site, she has this disclaimer:

... if what i have to say is worth stealing to you ...
- you need a life -

Irony much, eh.

* kitten sighs and goes to write strongly worded email about this

* * * * *

:: update 9:30a ::
Heh. Looks like I'm not the only one that our friend at shades of grey has been ripping off.

Her 'poetry' - if you can call it that - appears to be original. But the four stories at the bottom.. well, you all already know of the one she ripped off from me.

The other author she's ripped these from appears to be The Shanmonster and her "Killing Elliot".

There's only four stories total on the site, and two are definitely stolen - the others, I was unable to find, but her track record isn't good.

Ah, as I was about to go back to her page to get the exact quote, suddenly all it yields is "The page cannot be found : The page you are looking for might have been removed, had its name changed, or is temporarily unavailable."

But one of her more recent blog entries was a gripe called "Your Site Sucks", dedicated to all the annoying things that make the Wide World Web so obnoxious. She was right on most counts - the dripping blood underlines, the rotating pentagrams, the.. hey, wait a second. This is beginning to sound suspiciously like another one of my posts.

haha. I didn't even think of that until the text started spilling from my fingertips - my original point was that during her tirade about loser homepages, she says "Your page has no original content. You steal copyrighted work, and don't credit the original creator, or you try to pass it as your own work."

Fortunately, Bryan had the foresight to take some screencaps. Note particularly the second one.

Drama abounds.

* * * * *

:: update 11:16a ::
The copy text on her site now reads:
"Imitation is not always the highest form of flattery.
(and often inspires justifiable fury when you don't give the proper credit; intentionally or unintentionally.)
My personal apology to "kitten" and others as I correct the errors."

"error"? What, her ripping off my work was an accident?
As I said, I was at first willing to consider the possibility that this was merely an oversight on her part; that she honestly forgot to credit me, but then I noticed that she went out of her way to change the name "kitten" to "Slater" in the story, thereby deliberately erasing connection to me so she could pass it off as her work. Ugh.

This little debacle gets more and more fun. Bryan wants to make a collage out of the screenshots he took, as a sort of digital online version of spiking someone's head at the gates of the walled city.

Kid, I've flown from one side of this galaxy to the other..
kitten   April 24, 2002

philosopher's net magazine has a fascinating little quizthing called "Battlefield God" which, in theory, is designed to test how internally consistant your system of belief is.

Normally I despise online quizzes as the mind-numbing garbage they are, but this isn't quite the same - for one thing, it provides instant and ongoing feedback as you go, warning you of answers that contradict other answers you made. It poses a number of interesting questions regarding moral relativism, alleged attributes of God (yes, even if you're an atheist), and other fun bits.

My results:

You have been awarded the TPM medal of distinction! This is our second highest award for outstanding service on the intellectual battleground.

8.15% of the people who have completed this activity emerged unscathed with the TPM Medal of Honour.

I took one 'hit' - that is to say, the system found one supposed hole in my thinking, though I knew it would even as I saw the question. I highly disagree with it's assessment on that particular issue, but the rest of it is more or less fair.

Go play here. Though I caution any Jesus-freaks: I can almost guarantee you'll do poorly. Everyone else, good luck.

State of the Weblog.
kitten   April 22, 2002

I realize that Walled City is a disorganized mass of chaotic nonsense and idiocy.

But can't we at least pretend?

Bryan needs to stop crapflooding the page with chatlogs from IRC and AIM.

From Atlanta, good afternoon.

Stupid people.
kitten   April 21, 2002

I may complain and rant a lot, but I don't go looking for trouble. I'm the guy you'll see at the coffee shop minding his own business, reading and staying out of the way. I'll talk to anyone who comes up to me, as people often do for whatever reason, and I'm never less than polite and even - you may find this hard to believe - friendly to those who I don't know, who just come up and talk to me.

Even those people who I absolutely despise, I'll go out of my way to avoid. They stay out of my face, I stay out of theirs - that's the way it works.

There is however one joker who doesn't seem to grasp this simple concept. He's an utter waste of covalent electrons; his skin would be better used for things like carrying water or making drums. You can tell just by looking at him that there isn't anyone at the helm - he has the dull, witless look of a trapped animal.

He's almost universally detested by any thinking person; he's the kind of idiot you'll see loudly reading books about astrology and numerology and color healing and pyramid theory and astrology and any other new-age claptrap he can get his hands on. He's the guy always begging for a cigarette or spare change because he blows all his money - wherever he gets it - on drugs.. pot, seeds, cocaine, E, you name it, he'll do it. He'd inject vitamin C if only they'd make it illegal.

This sort of behavior in and of itself is enough to make me dislike the guy. I happen to think drugs should be legal - if someone wants to fuck themselves up, I say let 'em. I also happen to think that all that new-age voodoo hippie shit is so much smoke and mirrors and anybody who believes in it is a moron - but as long as they don't bother others with it, I say let 'em.

This clown however, as I mentioned, doesn't seem to grasp this concept. He'll go out of his way to make a public spectacle of himself, jumping around on tables and hurling wads of paper across the room and loudly announcing to the world at large how fucked up on whatever substance he is, as though anybody cares. And thus he makes his issues everybody else's problem.

And unfortunately for me, I am usually on the receiving end of this nonsense. Despite his knowledge that I despise him, he will go out of his way to antagonize me. The pattern has been repeated many times, in many establishments:

a. He'll sit next to me, while I'm minding my own, and try to engage me in "conversation". I ignore him.
b. He'll bark like a dog at me. I ignore him.
c. He'll make kissy noises at me. I ignore him.
d. He'll perform other idiotic antics to try to get a rise out of me. I ignore him.
e. If the above tactics fail, he'll usually touch me in some manner - either carress my cheek or reach over and mess my hair up.

He has been banned from Waffle House numerous times - at least once because he touched me and I bitchslapped him for it. The employees are well aware that I don't bother anybody, and that he was antagonizing me; plus they're always looking for an excuse to kick him out, since he never buys anything and always causes problems.

I started this evening out in a rather shitty mood to begin with. I dragged myself up to Starbucks and found Melissa and a few other friends on the patio outside, so I sat down and drank my coffee and we talked about movies for a bit.

Suddenly this dipshit comes up behind me - I didn't even know he was there - and fucks my hair up. For no reason; just puts his hand on my head and scrunches my hair.

And that was it. I'd had it with this fucker. For over a year now I've more or less put up with him, but he picked a really bad night to fuck with me. I don't even remember thinking about it - I just stood up. The metal chair I'd been sitting on scraped backward on the concrete as I stood, gathering the attention of most of the people outside..

And without thinking, I just clocked him across the head five or six times with my fist, and then planted my boot in his chest.

Guy sort of stands there wavering on his feet, which confused me at first - I certainly wasn't doing any formal punches or kicks, but hitting someone in the temple like that should knock them down. Then I realized it's sort of like how drunk people don't get hurt in car accidents - they're too stupid and immobile, so they kind of roll with it and stay okay. This guy was certainly stoned out of his mind, as he usually is, but woo-hoo, it's Four Twenty, so he's even more out of it than usual. Has no idea that he's hurt, though I'm sure he'll feel it tomorrow.

So he's standing there, barely comprehending what happened, and says, quote, "What's up? I was just saying hi." I was about to lay into him again, when Harrison - friend of mine - stands up and gets between us and tells me to siddown. So I do, and the guy and his cronies sort of disappear.

"I hate him too, but Jesus, I didn't want you to go too far," says Harrison. "Thought you were going to kill him."

Girl comes up a moment later with my bracelet in her hand - apperently it flew off my wrist when I was beating him - and she's sort of shy about handing it to me after what she just saw. And I take it and smile at her and say thanks, and she smiles and leaves.

I felt a bit better after that.

This is only the second time in my life I've ever struck someone out of anger - the other time, he was the target as well, though I didn't really hurt him then. I'm not a violent person, and I don't bother people.

But when some prick continually harrasses me, that's something else. And when you make your harrassment a physical thing, you're asking for trouble.

The moral of the story is, don't fuck with kitten. Because kitten don't go for this eye-for-an-eye bullshit. Fuck that. You take an eye, and I'll take off your motherfucking head.

A moment of tranquility.
kitten   April 12, 2002

I'm still half asleep, and I think I can hear you somewhere, muttering things out of dream. I know you're not there; not next to me, not under the window listening to the rain lashing on concrete and gravel, but somehow, in the semi-concious condition of 6am, it makes perfect sense to me that I can hear you.

You tell me to come back to bed, that you're cold. So I do.

And when the reality penetrates my sleep-induced fog, I roll over and onto my feet, breathing deep, eyes pinging from mirror to floor and ceiling and back again, and I curse myself.

And I curse and scream and punch my pillow and I want to lay waste to everything and anybody that stands between here and eternity; you don't hear me. You never hear me.

The sky and clouds roil and thunder above through the rain. You once held my hand as we watched the stormy skies, sometime in the past. I felt like we were making history, more than making love.

But you've fallen inside the promises you made, where nothing but your own reflection seems to matter.

The world is darker since then, and the only light I see is from my screams. I'd have waited until the end of time..

..you couldn't give me more than a moment.

Knallrotes Gummiboot.
[homeslice] Y'know, Andy. [kitten] Yes? [homeslice] I just had what I think is a pretty good idea. [kitten] Someone alert CNN. [homeslice] I think it'd be pretty funny to make a weightloss email, and see how many people we could get to reply. [homeslice] The catch is: [homeslice] We guarantee losing 10-30 pounds in a single day. [kitten] By what, slicing your limbs off? [homeslice] Well, yeah. [homeslice] But we'd not actually say that. [kitten] REVOLUTIONARY NEW WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAMME! GUARANTEED RESULTS, LOSE 10 To 30 POUNDS.. IN A SINGLE DAY!! [homeslice] Like "Doctors have been using this procedure for years on the rich and famous." [homeslice] And make up a really scientific sounding name for it. [kitten] RECENTLY APPROVED BY THE FDA! THIS PROGRAM DELIVERS RESULTS, FAST! LOSE THAT EXTRA WEIGHT IN TIME FOR SWIMSUIT SEASON!!!! [homeslice] haha, exactly. [kitten] THE ZX8K DIET PROGRAM : ACCEPT NO SUBSTITUTES! [homeslice] hahahaah.
Prepare to alter course.
kitten   April 9, 2002

What a day.

Got home at around 0200 and watched Star Trek with Bryan (Mirror, Mirror and The Corbomite Manuever). Then read for a while until 0500, and had to wake up at 0700 for work.

So I shuffle into the office and put my sword (yes, I carry it to work) on the couch in the reception area. I'm okay with that, since my boss is out of town.

I consume two cans of Red Bull energy drink what gives me wings.

So all day these idiots are calling me about bills we've already paid, or trying to sell me stuff, or wondering where my boss is, or can I please help them clean the virus from the email I told them not to open.

What this means, basically, is nonstop phone ringing that makes my tired head hurt.

Around noon my boss calls and says he just got back into town and he's on his way in. This wasn't on the agenda, so I'm forced to run around the office and make sure things are in order. I forget that I have a three foot katana on the couch, which is of course the first thing he sees when he walks in.

Anyway, he came via my other Mystery Boss - the one I never see, the Wizard Of Oz-style of executive. And when she left, he was without a car.

That's a problem, innit.

[kitten] What the.
[kitten] Apparently I'm giving my boss a ride home.
* kitten goes to clean out his car. :)
[homeslice] haha.
[Danelope] Uh.

I'm okay with that, his house is literally on the way to mine, so whatever. But yeah. My car. Much as I love her, she's a disaster. Especially considering I haven't made an attempt to clean her out in oh, two or three months. The back is overflowing with books and papers and boxes and pens and bits of trash and other party favors. I go to clean it out, roll down the windows a bit to air it out, and then --
[Danelope] HAHAHA!
[kitten] I got them out.
[kitten] But it was painful..
[Danelope] Where was Jesus with you then?
[kitten] Probably locking the door behind me.
[Danelope] He was in the car LAUGHING, infidel.


Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to find a pot of black coffee. Please let me know if there's any other way I can screw up today.

The story of diamond light.
kitten   April 4, 2002

She was once a whirling tundra, a snowscape, flecked with bits of ice. You could see it in her eyes.

But I don't think it's because she didn't burn; she did. She burned with an inner flame, a small quiet pilot light that she kept inside, fueling it with her own passions for life.

It wasn't for lack of fuel that she froze - she had a more abundant resource that the fusion researchers could dream of. An exuberant soul she possessed, and kept to herself in her small white-and-black mottled notebook, a soul that wanted nothing more than to discover beauty in the most simple of things. The world abounds with such wonders, and consequently she was one of the most spirited people I've ever met.

And yet she froze. I wonder if she knew it. But you could see it in her eyes.

Temperature: A measure of the average energy of the particles in a system.

Despite six and a half billion busy breeders on our planet, in spite of three hundred million of them in this country alone, ours is still mostly empty space. And those particles - those people - that you do run into.. well, the average energy there isn't much. It's cold in this place. In this place, it's cold.

You put anything in a context frigid enough, and it will lose it's energy. It's temperature will drop.

It will freeze.

And I think she did know it, which is why she kept that notebook with her, never let it out of her sight; scribbling down cracked words and incoherent seethings as fast as her slender fingers would let her. Somewhere buried in her conciousness was a thought, rather singular in nature: Fuel the fire, or freeze completely.

She was not the type to let that happen.

And you could see it in the way she moved, like a song, like memories of childhood. You could see it in the way she walked, like she was dancing with lights that nobody else could see. You could see it in the way she smiled.

There's a part of me that, against my wishes, engages fanciful flights of wishful thinking. There's a part of me that likes to play with the notion that I helped throw another log on the heath, that I stoked that fire.

On the edges of her lips, I once almost tasted an admission that I melted important parts of her that had been locked away in icy remission. But yesterday, and tomorrow, and for tomorrow's yesterday: I have my doubts.

But I never doubt - never doubted - that I could, if she would let me.

The spiralling loop of electric stove coil glows, and I touch the tip of a cigarette to it. Inhale. Exhale.

Maybe I have a fire inside, as well. Maybe not.

Maybe she could be the one to melt me.

Go ahead. Crack the ice. See what's beneath it.

Neon butterfly, torn wings.
kitten   April 2, 2002

I revamped the front page because the patchwork job that Bryan had up there before, sucked.

I really like that picture.

When a true genius appears in this world, you will know him by this sign, that all the dunces are in confederacy against him.
kitten   April 1, 2002
[Danelope] I think that'd be a fun experiment, actually. [Danelope] To see how many types of contraband you could fit into a single box. [Danelope] Switchblades. Cuban cigars. Hash. Exported beef. [_Lasar] kitten's rants [Danelope] No, those are just immoral. Not illegal, thanks to the fucking first amendment. [_Lasar] Damn. [Danelope] "You're going to regret this whole freedom of speech thing," said Thomas Jefferson. "I forsee a day when people named Andy Zebrowitz will use this nation's freedoms to the detriment of its citizens." [Danelope] "Quiet, fool!" replied Washington. "All your freedoms are belong to the Constitution!" * kitten giggles. [kitten] I think he was misquoted there. [kitten] I believe his exact words were, "All your Constitution are belong to the US."