Know what I hate about the 12th month in a year? Not the crass consumerism that gaily rape-exploits what should be a happy time for its own gain. Not the thunderous nattering of the politically correct trying to neuter the holiday in an effort to neither offend or bring joy to anyone (an amusing parody can be found here: [link]). No, I hate December because of the dreaded question...

"So, what do you want for Christmas?"

It's a long story. tl;dr version is: I get mobbed by the feeling I'm not worth the money people'd spend on me, and it sets off the depression like a spark to napalm. Yes, I know I'm not fully right in the head, thanks for noticing.

So, my subscription ran out. Money's too tight to justify renewing it, so we'll see how long my superego can hold out against my id's deep-seated hatred of banner ads. Alternatively, I'll gladly do a pixel manip or two for anyone who'd buy me a sub, but who am I really kidding? Still, me if you're interested

Following the theme of "nobody cares", I'm planning on doing a major overhaul of my City of Heroes character profiles. Some of the older pics were taken with lousy graphics settings, and a lot of characters have changed in appearance or got new costumes. Hopefully this'll dovetail with my plan of doing overly detailed character writeups for my various headpeople in the near future. Right now though, I think I just need a nap...

Icon Bank is where it always is: [link]

HELP ME FIND A MISSING FRIEND [link]

Fanart ideas, if you ever feel inclined [link]

This is the winner of ThinkGeek.com's regular haiku contest. Too good not to share:

"A Roach Infestation."

Told my boss swine flu,
but I really came down with
Modern Warfare 2.

It seems with the turning of the seasons there is an upswing in my productivity. I recently hipchecked a mess of papers concerning my old college registration, student loan payments, and more dating back many years and finally got them all sorted and tucked away in one place. A trivial achievement to some, but for a disorganized slob like me it's worth being happy about I've also been hammering away at my assorted fics and have actually managed to finish one

The biggest thing lately, though, is that I have a job interview today at West Edmonton Mall. Specifically, it's for a ride operator/games attendant position at the amusement park (Google West Edmonton Mall if that last statement seems confusing). So if this interview works out, I basically get to be a carnie, but without the smell. Go me!

Edit: Got it! Woohoo! This will be the first shaky pebble that triggers the landslide of my self-improvement. By actually earning income, my options will start to expand as I march towards my final goals. Start work on the 1st, and looking quite forward to it.

Icon Bank is where it always is: [link]

HELP ME FIND A MISSING FRIEND [link]

Fanart ideas, if you ever feel inclined [link]

"Particles of raw inspiration sleet through the universe all the time. Every once in a while one of them hits a receptive mind, which then invents DNA or the flute sonata form or a way of making lightbulbs wear out in half the time. But most of them miss. Most people go through their lives without being hit by even one.

Some people are even more unfortunate. They get them all."
--- Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters

So many projects, so very little time...

Icon Bank is where it always is: [link]

HELP ME FIND A MISSING FRIEND [link]

Fanart ideas, if you ever feel inclined [link]



In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.



DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

8 October 1917 - March, 1918



Goodnight Saigon
-Written by Billy Joel

We met as soul mates
On Parris Island
We left as inmates
From an asylum
And we were sharp
As sharp as knives
And we were so gung ho
To lay down our lives

We came in spastic
Like tameless horses
We left in plastic
As numbered corpses
And we learned fast
To travel light
Our arms were heavy
But our bellies were tight


We had no home front
We had no soft soap
They sent us Playboy
They gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep
And shot on sight
And prayed to Jesus Christ
With all of our might


We had no cameras
To shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe
And played our Doors tapes
And it was dark
So dark at night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we'd write


And we would all go down together
Yes we would all go down together


Remember Charlie
Remember Baker
They left our childhood
On every acre
And who was wrong?
And who was right?
It didn't matter in the thick
Of the fight


We held the day
In the palm
Of our hand
They ruled the night
And the night
Seemed to last as long as
Six weeks
On Parris Island
We held the coastline
They held the highlands
And they were sharp
As sharp as knives


They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors
And waited for us to arrive


And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together



The Price Of A Mile
-Written by Sabaton

Throw your soldiers into positions once there is no escape, and they will prefer death to flight.

Hear the sound of the machine gun
Hear it echo in the night
Mortars firing, rains the scene
Scars the fields that once were green
It's a stalemate at the front line
Where the soldiers rest in mud
Rosen houses, all is gone
There's no glory to be won

Know that many men will suffer
know that many men will die
Half a million lives at stake
At the fields of Paschendale
And as night falls the general calls and the battle carries on
I long what is the purpose of it all
What's the price of a mile

Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march
Long way from home, paying the price in young mens lives
Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army in despair
Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out

Thousands of machine guns
Get on firing through the night
Mortars placed and wreck the scene
Guns the fields that once were green
Still a dead-lock at the front line
Where the soldiers die in mud
Rosen, houses since long gone
Still no glory has been won

Know that many men has suffered
Know that many men has died
Six miles of ground has been won
Half a million men are gone
And as the men crawl the general call and the killing carry on
I long what was the purpose of it all
What's the price of a mile

Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march
Long way from home, paying the price in young mens lives
Thousands of feat march to the beat, it's an army in despair
Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out

Young men are dying
They pay the price
Oh how they suffer
So tell me what's the price of a mile

That's the price of a mile

Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march
Long way from home, paying the price in young mens lives
Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army in despair
Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out

Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march
Long way from home, paying the price in young mens lives
Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army in despair
Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out

Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march
Long way from home, paying the price in young mens lives
Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army in despair
Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out

Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march
Long way from home, paying the price in young mens lives
Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army in despair
Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out

Icon Bank is where it always is: [link]

HELP ME FIND A MISSING FRIEND [link]

Fanart ideas, if you ever feel inclined [link]

As those of you who actually follow this journal know, we recently lost a beloved family member: Daisy Mae, my dad's dog and best friend for 13 years.

While time is starting to heal over the wounds, it can't cover up one thing: my grandmother's home now echoes without a dog around. It's just not complete.

Therefore, my dad took steps in finding another dog, not so much as a direct replacement for Daisy as it was just to have a dog, any dog, around. That's when he found Casey.

Casey is a bichon-shitzu mutt who wasn't living in the best of circumstances. No abuse or anything, it's just that his owner is out of the house for great chunks of time, which leaves Casey on his own frequently. Considering how my dad is a homebody having to watch over Grandma, plus all the homecare workers that visit on a regular basis, Casey's gone from minimal human contact to overload

He's been living at my dad's for a week now, and he's been growing on Dad a fair bit. Despite being left alone so much Casey is ridiculously well-behaved (much better behaved than Derby and Sasha, embarrassingly enough), though when Grandma feels like being fussy she likes to complain his breath is terrible (a valid point, but still). Not sure if Dad's decided on whether to hold onto Casey for now, but I suspect it's quite likely.

One thing that might tip the scales in that direction is the incident that happened yesterday. Dad was puttering around in the basement when he heard a crash upstairs, but when he came up to investigate he couldn't find the source. Then he went into the living room and found a perfect ovoid crack in the window. Stepping outside he found a rather confused raven (not a crow, a full-sized raven) tottering off, grumbling to itself about its newfound migraine.

Dad decided to poll his friends on Facebook and ask if there was any potential signifigance to the incident. A Native friend commented "A raven, eh? Lots of spirituality there... could mean that something's come full-circle in your life... then again he could have just gotten hammered eating fermenting apples in your backyard ". Another of his friends followed up on that, pointing out the full-circle may apply to Dad having a dog in his life again. Something to think about...