Tooth and Claw

Listening: Lady Gaga - Lovegame
Reading: Isolde13


I didn't get to the dentist.

I fought. I even got as far as being in the car. But about five minutes into the drive, my body went from cranky angry to nerves wailing, flailing, shrieking, etc. Yay.

Way to bottom low expectations there, body.

So the teeth are going the way of the eyes. I'm well over two years late for my eye test. You can't read a chart when you're migraining. Well, maybe you *can*, but I wouldn't ever want glasses made on the results. And the frickin thought of them shining that damn flashlight into my eyes. Hello ER hell on the instant. So no.

I'm more worried about my teeth though. Vomming? Not so good for enamel. Not good for the rest of me either. But teeth are so *sensitive* about it.

Why Bodies Suck

In addition to the usual chaos, I now have my second infection in less than a month. Extra Ow.

Just what I need!

And I have to, cringe, go to the dentist in a few hours.

My main aim will be to get through it without screaming or spewing body fluids.

No cavities would be nice too.

=/= Equal

It appears a random twit, AKA a Conservative MLA, has used his blog to proclaim the important missive that:


"men are attracted to smiles, so smile and don't give me any of that equal stuff. If you want equal, it comes in little packages at Starbucks."


I could be wrong, but I believe someone just asked for a lapful of boiling coffee. Subtle that.

Shine On Me

Pompous Productions Presents: Shine On Me

Wow. If you got through that without stuffing your hands over your mouth and giggling like I fool, I am seriously concerned for you.

So, you think, the 80s were--but no!--this was made THIS YEAR, for what, I suspect was a ridiculous amount of money. And it's *serious*. Dead serious. As serious as the Dark Times. And Sacred Light bursting from chests.

Be thou amazed...

(And, of course, *of course*, it's the first of a trilogy...)

Adorable and Awesome, Super-Concentrated

So, I am having serious Adam Lambert withdrawal, as expected. But lo, there is a worse fate, Kradam withdrawal.

Seriously. The media blitz is now over (wah!), but watching those two, especially in interviews and such, was cuter and sweeter and funnier than the entire KNOWN UNIVERSE of lolcats *COMBINED*.

*squish*

(I shall call you Squishy, and you shall be mine, and you shall be, my Squishy.)

Also, I *need* to get me some hugs like those...Is that just a side effect of being shamelessly loved + awesome and adorable? Because, if so, I am screwed. I am not that cute. They like literally frickin *radiate* rainbows and puppies and kittens and glitter and unicorns and love.

They *are* hugs.

I proclaim, when we hug, when we *really* hug, we are Kradaming.

Publication: "Chiaroscuro"

Cinema Spec is now available at Amazon, which includes my flash tale, "Chiaroscuro".

Yes, that's an affiliate link for Raven Electrick, the publisher. Yes, they will get a few extra pennies if you click through. No, I'm not getting paid royalties :P

Update: Permanent

Currently Playing: David Cook - Permanent
Currently Reading: Twilight Series (again)


So, I'm still doing terrible.

I'm not posting or emailing or having contact with humans in general. Mostly, I feel too awful to put thoughts together, and even when I can they amount to misery. Which is kind of, you know, best not shared.

I've seen my specialist again. It's bad. The clutch of growths is indeed gone, yes, but they are of a kind that are going to come back. Worse, he thinks the damage they've done is permanent. I'm not going to get better. Ever.

The Spousal Unit doesn't accept this.

I was in the ER again all of Monday, with the IVs and the screaming and the whole ugly deal, just as if I'd never had two surgeries. As if I still had a clump of tumours in my middle.

But the S.U. won't admit I've lost.

That *we* lost.

Of course, most of the time--no matter how bad I hurt, even when I'm a sobbing mess, and my rational mind wants and begs my body to just die already--I don't think I've lost either. But I mean it different. My body is lost. And sure, my life hurts real bad, I'm not going to lie, ever. But I still win. I've got the most amazing person for a partner, a person who has to suffer unbelievable crap to be with me, and yet is somehow convinced I'm totally worth it.

I wouldn't have chosen to live.

But I'm here, and I have to fight to stay that way.

I might not get forever. This is it, so I have to hold on harder than the pain, harder than death itself. That's the price. The S.U. will stay with me, but I have to stay.

A terrible price.

And totally worth it...

Ow

Oh man, do I feel bad for Kris Allen. He seems like a sweet and genuine and talented guy. And he won by coordinated gay bashing. Ouch.

I bet he's still throwing up.

And that is never going away. The rest of his frickin *life* the poor bastard is irrevocably linked with hatred.

Sorry, Pocket Idol, that was a bus you couldn't dodge, and those wheels will bite deep...

Breaking News

It's Free Comic Day, which means, ungodly agony be damned, I may have to, somehow, actually *leave the house*...

Rapturous

So, there is tech of the afterlife.

Personally, I'm disappointed. I was hoping this meant I could still access my laptop when my carbon had blown apart. Nuts!

But I'm not even a bit surprised people create their own memorials or death notices. I'm puzzled why anyone would expect otherwise; we do everything digitally we do elsewhere. Our needs haven't changed, just how we can express them.

My study question is this: In The Rapture part of the article, who picks the Faithful? I mean, the divine isn't setting up the web server. What kind of appalling twit thought he could pick the chosen? And what kind of sick mind agrees they've been anointed? I'm pretty sure the kind answer is not people who are making the world a better place. One thing I'm *damn* certain of, the people who are the most deserving would NEVER consider themselves that.

Also, in other news to limp your noodle, self-described evolutionary theorists have decided a major design of the human penis is sperm sucking. Yes. They tried to prove it out as viable with flour and water.

I'm not saying this will cause The Rapture, just that you might wish it would.

This idea is fairly up in the ew-no meter. Germs, of course, but also the proposal that all girls are such sloppy seconds, nay, infinities, that they need to be scooped out during use.

Sigh.

I really really hate arm-waving agenda-slinging crackpotting that tries to give itself authority by yanking at the label of science.

This totally falls in the non-science camp, where people creep you way the hell out by proposing ideas that reveal more about how twisted they see the world rather than even pretending to have empirical study about the universe.

Study question: So imagine you report that your job is to play with pseudo sperm and manufactured penises. What is your aim? To prove that girls are whores! Sounds objective. I'm sure your mother might love you anyway, but I hope your dating life is ugly complicated.

Study question 2: And how many millions do you think they got for the government grant? Come on, unless it's weapons or meds, it's all funded by people who can't complain and cut the coin.

Just take a deep breath and picture the perfect greens and blues of your virtual resting place...

Idolised

Again, the glittery highlight of my week, the very thing to carry me to the next one, has come on Tuesday.

Freddie is gone and Bowie is semi-retired, but their amazing offspring, Adam Lambert, crooning and strutting down those stairs to flail me with a perfect endless note that sets my scarred insides on glory fire? Sweet all. Feelin' Good indeed.

A Castle in Spain

So where did I decide to bury my anxiety and pain next? More De Mille, of course.

Yet more awesome Canadian content for Gutenberg? We hope so.

A Castle in Spain seems to hold the promise of a more Dodge Club like experience, especially as it opens with various characters thrust together traveling Europe. Plus, 12% in, and there's already been brigands. And several declarations of crippling soul-flying love, to different girls, by one fellow. So that promises a mess. Which is *excellent*.

The Homesteaders Posted To Gutenberg

One more book is saved.

As the title has spoiled, Robert J. C. Stead's work, The Homesteaders, is now live at Gutenberg.

The was a short (80k) novel, and there were no illustrations. It took me about 26 hrs to produce. As I recall, there were no accents to preserve, so it's likely a 7 bit version. Although I usually assume 8.

The book has a decent start, opening with tidbits of settlers of the prairies. A fun moment was a would-be settler on route to her new home, arguing against those who had seen it, that there *had* to be trees there. There had to be, for what else would they make fences of?

Excellent logic.

The book really falls apart when it flips forward 25 years, and everyone is an unlikeable idiot. Except the outright scammers. The villains are obvious, and we can't dislike them really. You will probably hope hard for them, given who they're up against.

Although Stead is fairly light read, I think he suffered coming after De Mille. Even when De Mille was bad, he was way way better than this.

The Homesteaders

...is now 100% complete.

Publication: "Thou Shall Not"

My flash story, Thou Shall Not, is now live at Everyday Weirdness.

Have a nip of tea and enjoy.

Acceptance: "Thou Shall Not"

My flash story, "Thou Shall Not", has been accepted by Everyday Weirdness.

Basic Chemistry

It seems kind of pointless to type this, but I feel awful. Really really awful.

I'd say the pain from surgery is about 80% gone, but I actually feel worse than before they cut a clutch of growths from my abdomen.

You don't expect that. You figure the ick is gone, you've got to feel better. But no. Thing is, your body doesn't know what the hell just happened, but it knows something big has occurred, and the way it reacts to the screeching panic of WTF? is to flip every damn chemical switch its got. All together now.

I'm told it will eventually calm the freak down, and I will somehow stop jerking in agony like a labrat getting shock therapy. But it takes months for your body's chemistry to reset.

Months.

And meanwhile, yes, I will keep flailing out about in pain and terror, even in sleep, rather like a suffocating carp.

Hissy hasn't swayed one bit from guard duty. Although, she does give me the stink eye--and wails--when she's trying to goo into me and I won't be still for longer than 3.42 seconds.

Since I need to focus on something, other than whimpering and stuffing down screams, my current Gutenberg project, The Homesteaders, is at 75% complete.

At about 70%, the main character, who had been acting like a stupid ass from page one, but a *believable*--oh so highly irritating--ass, went to a belief obliterating 'too stupid to support life.' Apparently just to fit a plot forged in 'let's not even try to make sense land'. Sure, humans can do incredible things, many of them moronic. But they reason their way there. They had to do it. Somehow. Nobody acts because it was written that way. And badly.

The double whammy of ridiculously contrived plots and people that don't act like people, just to service said plot, is really giving me a nasty rash. My next Gutenberg project may have to be non-fiction, just so I don't start thinking about machetes and bonfires.

What a waste of carbon.

The Dragon, in Graph

R. checked in and mentioned merrily meandering back through my blog, and, while my innards were throbbing heartily, I've stumbled back through the mist a bit myself.

I made note of a few things I should update on, like Pheen's diabetes and Comic Relief, but I also staggered to this blog in Graph. I thought I'd do an update. It's really beautiful to watch it bloom.

Here:



It's done using this html graph tool.

Try it. It's like watching a garden grow. A geek garden.

I Reject Your Reality...

I just got a scary rejection letter.

Not scathing, though it is, but scary--as in you're fairly sure the editor has forgotten to take certain key meds and you get a creepy rambling missive of random, making reference to intimacies and events that never happened, using English in non-proscribed ways, and you realise the pure horror of having inadvertently made contact with dangerous crazy...and even worse--thanks to the stupidity of submission 'standards'--crazy HAS YOUR ADDRESS.

So, if said person is even half as bug eyed stalker as s/he appears in email, you may just open your eyes tonight or next week to a body above your bed, muttering about egg yolks or whatever.

It's really not a good feeling.

I never really know what to do about it. I don't suppose there is anything. I just do what I usually do, make note of the rejection, file the email in my archives, move on. Make note to never sub to crazy central again.

If I ever get found having been stabbed to death by like three hundred plastic forks, or having been barbequed with popples and pringles, somebody check my archive. The fork chipper is probably in there.

For the statistically curious, I probably get a couple of these for every one hundred subs. So if the filter is set to absolute batshit, it's probably less than 3%.

But it still feels like way too much...

Tenderised

I hath survived my surgery.

My insides are very very tender, and I am still mostly out of it, so communication will remain spotty, natch, lest I express much greater nitwittery than usual.

My specialist found some new growths when he went in to attack the big ugly, but he scrubbed my innards down like new. Got out the bad bits, kept the me bits. Or, as he told the spousal unit, "it went perfectly".

The nurses were all made of big cups of awesome, and yes, I would be saying that even if the last one didn't ask me to pass on an extra snuggle to my guys. But surely, there is something right with someone who sees fur on your clothes and demands to know what adorable sweetie is squished by you.

I am still in a lot of pain, and my sleep is a right mess, but that's not a surprise. As the S.U. noted, I basically have several major stab wounds.

The Homesteaders

My current gutenberg project is well underway.

And we have our first #$#@$%#@ fainting.

17% complete.

(the proofing, not the fainting)

James De Mille - The Cryptogram

My latest gutenberg project, The Cryptogram by James De Mille, has been posted to gutenberg. This one took me about 87.25 hrs, from scanning to proofing to image prep and html coding.

It will be available in three flavours, 8-bit, 7-bit, and html; or, accents in, accents stripped, and with images. There are 52 images included from the original text. I've coded the html for maximum accessibility.

I must admit this book was so disappointing compared to De Mille's other efforts. The first half of the book is good, and holds interest despite its heavy wordage, but things go to utter crap in the second half and the ending is just...craptastic. Also the plot point of illness or sudden swooning, just to pad things out so key facts aren't revealed to relevant chars, is used at least once a chapter, especially in the later half. It grates something fierce.

And the ending will make you hurl the book. Or, since it's now digital, you'll heave up your monitor or laptop...and then remember this is thousands of dollars and precious data in your hands, and the other is just a paid by the word lazy and trite melodrama dashed out by a guy who was capable of far far better. And you'll set 'er down and make up your own ending. Probably involving lengthy torture.

Op News

I got a call from the hospital. My surgery has been moved, this time in the good way.

They moved it to the end of March, but then bumped that--the wrong way--to April 3rd.

This surgery is even scarier than the first one. They'll be two surgeons, my specialist and another specialist he called in, and they're cutting twice the access into my abdomen, minimum. Ye-ouch.

They'll try to cut the growth out, and, if that fails, they'll cut out extras bits, ie. organs the growth is attached to, trying to save the bigger chunk of me. It's terrifying even when you're a total nerd geek, already bed-ridden in utter agony, who knows the failure rate (1 in 1000) and repeats it like the sacred formula to life, the universe, and everything...

And now, to fill out my surgery essay...

Publication: "Board Now"

And "Board Now" is already live at Dog Oil Press.

How's that for service?