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too much coffee filters
02/17/2007 = 08:58 AM

I am often torn between the desire to express a thought and the need to shield either myself (from the wrath and/or stalkerage of others ) or others (from my regard of them as the primary reason the Vulcans haven't invited our species to join the Federation yet).

I also hate a locked online journal. Not other people's — a lot of writers find locking and password-protecting to be effective means of sharing their thoughts, attracting attention, and keeping certain readers in the loop whilst keeping others safely unlooped.

Me, I tried that for a while, but it doesn't work for me. If I'm online, it's 'cos I want to talk to someone about something. If it's private, I don't want to talk about it.

I might write it down, but I won't publish it.

As for attention, I own that I want it — the name of the game is, after all, "look how pretty I write" — but writing in an honest manner does not necessarily mean I want to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, or I'd be showing off my brain-pan like all the little Hollywood hotties are showing off their ... countries of origin.

You think the brain confetti I hurl is pretty fucking random now. Imagine if I didn't sometimes hit the BACKSPACE key, is what I mean.

Even if your forum doesn't allow you to save drafts for revision (or eventual discard), you do still have, at the very least, a split-second to say, "Do I really want to say this in front of gourd and everybody?"

Is that censoring? Or is it just avoiding embarrasment?

I prefer to think of it as filtering, in my own particular case.

That out of the way, I would like to say that I considered long and hard about whether I wanted to publish the following thought, since it is about my job and my company, subjects I tend to generalize about as much as possible and gloss over whenever possible as well, because I like my job and I like to get paid and I would not like to have either or both of those two items stop being available to me just because I felt the need to express an opinion.

I concluded that, should my sorry arse get dooced over this, I would wear my dooceage like a badge of honor. I'd probably even put it on my résumé.

Man, that introduction was about fifty million times longer than the fricken' thought.

Which follows:

There's a joke in which a woman calls her husband on his cellphone and says, "Be careful on the freeway. The radio says there's this crazy driver going in the wrong direction."

The guy replies, "It isn't just one driver! It's all of them!"

My former boss, who no longer works for our company, talked a lot of shit behind a lot of people's backs, and lately, I have been meeting a lot of these people, about whom I had heard countless horror stories related by my former boss, and they have all been, without exception, incredibly helpful, intelligent, and professional.

Someone was driving the wrong way on the freeway. I don't think it was any of them.

For Valentimes, I asked for something that would be a cherished romantic memory.

He missed the words "cherished" and "romantic," and I got a new 4 gig jump drive.

Actually, that's what I really wanted, so it worked out pretty well.

I mean, go ahead and try to store any images, songs, or documents on that shiny diamond ring or those sparkly earrings.

Or stuff them into that teddy bear. Or hang them off those roses.

Or, best idea yet, eat those chocolates, then try to remember how the songs go or draw up all those pictures and documents from your own memory.

In an effort to make my new 4 gig jump drive slightly more romantic, I decorated it a touch.

This led a coworker to ask, "What's with the cute bunny sticker?" which was perfect, because it allowed me to reply, "Oh, that's easily explained; it's so you can shut the fuck up 'cos I'm a hurt you."

Bunny stickers. They just say so much.

Thanks to Heidi for the stickers.

In my head, sometimes I sing Heidi's name as "Heidi-Heidi-Heidi-Heidi-Heidi-Heidi-Hi," to the tune of the Irish drinking song from Whose Line.

Or I sing "Heidi Ann" to the tune of Holly Ann by Boston, which is vastly quooler and way hippy-sounding. And has a lot of good guitars going on.

Or I just say, "Help me, Heidi Ann. You're my only hope."

All of the previous Heidiliciousnesses are my personal means of trying not to sing, "Heidi Ann, Heidi Ann, doing whatever a Heidi can," to the tune of the Spiderman theme song.

(They're also examples of my not-filtering myself. I've been up since 3:30 am, in an episode of non-health which I will not share due to the me-filter. You get whatever's left over. Yayness.)

But I, I have the stickers. The stickers are the power.

The latest episode was recorded whilst Andy was dying of Captain Trips.

M-O-O-N, that spells Podcrapular.

UPDATE:

I couldn't decide on a single nail color.

Tags: work, Valentine's Day, podcast

drinking: the last of the second pot of coffee. hence the erratic filtering. heh. coffee-filtering
listening to: The Beatles, Help
today: running around like a type-a headless chicken