A Brief History of Time

All of the following are true. I list these not to boast, but to illustrate how little control we have over our lives, and how reason and rhyme rarely come into play:

When I was four, I wrote my first short story. It was one sentence long and had two spelling errors (I misspelled "might" and "maybe"), but the grammar was perfect and it had a protagonist, antagonist, and moral. It was also illustrated (and not just random scribbles)
When I was six, I was reading at a fifth grade level and did math at a tenth grade level.
When I was seven, the charter school I went to proposed skipping me two grades. I was already a grade ahead, and my parents decided to keep me with my peers.
When I was nine, the school suggested holding me back.
When I was ten, the school threatened to call child services on my parents if they didn't put me on Ritalin.
Two weeks later I won a national writing contest. I forgot to attend the award ceremony. That same year, I placed second in the state spelling bee.
When I was eleven a special meeting was called to address the fact that I was receiving an average of two hours of detention a day (eight demerits), and the teacher was running out of times when he could punish me.
When I was thirteen I was dropped from AP math and placed in remedial English, though I was still 2 grades ahead of my classmates in both.
When I was fifteen I was thrown out of the school by my ear (literally).
When I was sixteen I was accepted into a scholarship-paid international exchange program. That same year, my counsellor expelled me from school, citing that I was unable to learn. I was allowed to finish out the semester, at the end of which I blew out the curve in my Chemistry class by finishing a test that was specifically designed to be unfinishable and scoring 100%.
When I was seventeen, I received a perfect score on a physics exam, again one not designed for a perfect score to be attainable. I was informally accused of copying, except they couldn't figure out who I would have copied from, since the next best grade was a 62%.
When I was eighteen I was allowed back into high school, provided I agree to take over various classes that I had skipped over the years, including ninth grade reading, tenth grade math, and eleventh grade English.
When I started college, I tested so high in my entrance exams that I was barred from taking core classes (as they would inflate my grades), which would eventually prevent me from meeting the requirements of my degree.
In my sophomore year of college, I again blew the curve in my philosophy class, prompting the philosophy teacher to stop grading my tests.
In my junior year of college, my professor bargained with me to stop taking her class because I knew more about the subject than she did and it was affecting her authority in the class.
After three years in college, I graduated cum laude with honors credits. I was the first of my peers to get a baccalaureate, even though I started a year later, had to take a semester off (because I couldn't take core classes) and never took summer classes.

Ten years after graduation, I am a data processor at an insurance company. I make $7,000 below the average American wage. No more than a quarter of my colleagues can be considered fully literate in English. My boss has never heard of the European Union. My other boss is convinced I'm constantly in trouble because her boss keeps asking to talk with me privately; I am the only one who gets this request. Next week, she will be putting me on probation for not meeting the needs of my job.

It may be me, it maybe the system, it may be outside forces, but somewhere someone has failed. It's not egoism– it's data.

A Little Local Flavor

Update: The candidate profiled below has overwhelmingly won the primary
election, and will be in the general election this November.

Though we're all really, really interested in the national primaries, some of us in Oregon are still checking out the local dudes as well. Like the guy on the left, Mike Erickson. Mikey is running in the Republican primary for something-or-other, I think as an incumbent. He's doing the good-ol-boy, God Family and Flag platform, mostly because he doesn't have any actual positions on anything. He basically just wants to have power over something, so why not run for State Senate?

That's not what makes him a gomer, though.

Now, let me point out that this guy is the full monty pro-family, pro-life neocon, with an Oregon flair. You may be surprised (or not) to know that most of Oregon is conservative– the only democrats in the state are basically anyone within 10 miles of a college. Unfortunately for the rest of Oregon, that covers about 70% of the state's population, between Portland and Eugene. But I digress. A neocon can make it in this state, so long as he's consistent with his values.

This neocon, on the other hand, was dating a pretty young thing, and got her knocked up. He promptly did what he felt he had to do: stroll over to the ATM, pull out three hundred bucks, and give her a ride to the abortion clinic. Let me make it clear that he did not actually go into the clinic with her- he just dumped her out front and drove off.

But that's not what makes him a gomer. In fact, I don't even think that makes him a hypocrite. It clearly appears to him that women's feelings or concerns are not important. It also appears to elude him that a woman deciding to go through with an abortion is fully cognisant that she is killing her own child. As far as he's concerned, it seems, he figures that women find out they're pregnant and just say, "well, that's inconvenient," pop a clothes hanger in their hooha and head off to work. So I can see why this fuckface is so adamantly pro-life. If I were that kind of a chauvanist prick who uses women for a dickhole and dumped them off at the used womens' center when I got tired of them... well, I'd probably shoot myself in the fucking head, but at the very least I guess I would not trust women to make their own decisions.

Anyway, here's what makes him such a tool, not really fit to wear skin, let alone hold office: his opponent Kevin Mannix did everything he could to make this little event as public as possible, and when Erickson was asked for comment, his spokesman replied (and I quote):

"Kevin Mannix's smear tactics are the last gasps of a desperate candidate who is sinking under the weight of his long record of raising taxes."

Raising taxes. Erickson dumps used girlfriends off at the abortion clinic, but vote for him, because his opponent... has raised taxes.

Good Christ. Anyone who supports Erickson, please show your support with a campaign pin, or perhaps a hat, so we know who you are.

Jesus Christ, shut the FUCK UP.

I take 30 minutes to go down to the break room and just enjoy a cup of chili, and in storms this lady SWEARING about the new vending machine, an OUTRAGE of enormous proportions… would you LOOK at the OPTIONS IN HERE? There’s nothing that’s both diet and caffeine free!!!! There's root beer, and Dr. Pepper, and Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi. But NOTHING diet caffeine free!!!! Look, over here, there's all different kinds of juice, but they all have SUGAR in them!!! There's this G2, I don't know what that is, I guess it's low calorie, but it's still not DIET! There's nothing in here... I thought this company was supposed to be trying to encourage being healthy, and now they don't even have a coffee machine with decaf!!! There's no healthy options!!!

Oh my God, there's an ice machine with water right next to you, you DUMB. BITCH! Fucking USE IT! It's diet, it's free, it's fucking WATER. Not everything is a crime against you, you dirty yeast laden hag! You want diet, choke on a fucking ice cube. LET ME EAT MY FUCKING CHILI!!!

My mindstream

or, "Why I never accomplish anything."

Here is a sample of the voice that goes on inside my head.

God, this is a great idea for a new story. I've got scenes, great jokes... it's about time I wrote an all out comedy. I should start writing it now. I'll get my desk cleaned off and start writing. The dirty kitchen is a bit distracting, though. I can't really focus on writing when the kitchen's that dirty. So let me clean the kitchen really quicklike. Of course, I can't really focus on cleaning the kitchen, because I know it won't make a difference with how dirty the living room is. Let me clean up the living room first. It's a little late to be cleaning the living room, though– by the time I get to vacuuming, it'll already be quiet hours. I can just pick up, I suppose. Of course, picking up will only take me half an hour. I'm still not going to be able to clean the kitchen, of course, until I get the living room vacuumed. I'll at least clean off the dishes in the sink. There, now that that's done, let me pick up the living room. My back's sore, though– they don't make kitchen sinks tall enough for people like me. Kind of makes me a pussy to get a sore back just from washing dishes. Seems strange that I would have to stretch just to do housechores. I'll watch an episode of The Office, give my back a little time to recover, then I'll clean the living room. Oh, I don't have time to watch The Office; I need to make lunch for tomorrow. Damn, nothing really in the fridge that I don't have to cook, and that'll just make dirty dishes. I just cleaned the dishes, I want to wake up at least one morning to a clean sink, if nothing else. It's too late to go to the grocery store and grab something. Maybe I'll just eat out tomorrow for lunch. Wait, shoot, I don't have the money. Ok, I'll just cook something up real quick. Clean up the dishes... meh, I'll do it tomorrow. Ok, now it's time to pick up the front room. Seems a bit silly to clean up the front room when the kitchen's dirty again; it's not like the CDs on the table are going to attract ants, but the dishes will. Fuck it; I'll just go to bed. I'll watch that episode of The Office while I'm falling asleep. I deserve a half hour of leisure after all I did today. Funny show. Gives me some good ideas for that new story I want to write.

Overheard at the office

ACTUAL QUOTE FROM A PHONE CONVERSATION: (note: This phone call took place in a call center in Portland, Oregon) "It's a small town, you've never heard of it. No, I'm talking to you from India, I just have an excellent accent. Now what is it you want from me?"

It's the little things

I love typing the number 489687 in ten-key. Try it sometime.