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I just wanted to take the opportunity to thank all those people who responded with encouragement and advice to my October 29, 2002 daylog. Actually, after the fact, I'm kind of embarrassed to have posted it - it seems kind of melodramatic and over-the-top when I read it now. I mean, really I'm ok, I never got hurt or anything, and I'd already decided my marriage was over before then. I think part of what prompted the writeup is that I'm cycling back down into a depression, and everything seems worse and more momentous then. Don't worry, I've dealt with this as long as I can remember, since I was a child, and I've always come back up. I am on medication, and I'll be talking to my provider about increasing my dosage, I just wanted to let you all know that I really, really appreciate the support you have given me. I may not be on much for awhile - I really need to focus on school, since this is my next-to-last semester, and right now I just don't have a lot of energy to spare. I love you all, and I'll be back.

My arse was warm on Saturday, my friends. The sun fully shone down upon it.

What am I talking about? WELL.. read on.

I don't know how many of you know about the SCA, but basically we are medjeeval nutters, who wear costumes, some guys (myself included) and girls get into armour use wooden (rattan) sword and beat the bejesus outa each other.. It's fun, full contact and as close as one can get to life threatening , and still remain mortal.

So Saturday was the Australia wide tournament, to decide our next King. I entered. I came 2nd.

Let me just say, that I am (in my own opinion) an OK fighter, nothing super - BUT - I was firmly on fire on Saturday. The comment about my arse, well there's a saying that I included last daylog "The sun can shine on even a dog's arse somedays" meaning that everyone can have a bit of luck.. I have no idea where this comes from, it might even be node worthy in and of itself, but let me restate, my arse was happily wiggling in the baking warmth of our Sol. - And what a good feeling it was. I had the crowd cheering me on, the fighting was fun and fast. I was feeling good - nervous, frightened, scared stupid, but good - My Lady, who is the inspiration, and desire for my fighting (ok.. she's the one I am showing of to.. ;) was looking beautiful, and smiling.

I feel that I made the guy who eventually won, work bloody hard to get it ('kill' me) so ... WOW.

I am SO on top of the world today. I am about to go treat myself to some Chinese lunch food with a friend of mine even though I can't afford it..

Tonight My Girlfriend, flatmate and I are holding a Cup party and tomorrow I have a day off, so how much better can life get ???

Ahhhh summers heat rolls across my desk. yeah..


My desire to include the comment "I was going off like a bucket of prawns in the sun" was so strong, that even though I failed to get it in the above node I have now got it in ... heh heh heh ;)

Where I live, it's still the 3rd. I don't think that the E2 server is really in Greenwich anway, but whatever. By way of revolution, the following is my daylog for ... tomorrow.

As far as Mondays go, today wasn't too shabby. I started off with American History, which can never be too bad. Elliot said something about Matt and Meghan's big date last night that really bugged me. He just hates everyone who's in a relationship. Maybe he's just asexual and hasn't accepted it yet.

Two hours of Physics, but nothing interesting happened. What a waste.

I had lunch with the social outcasts girls, which is always fun; a break from nerd testosterone.

Off to English class. I hate to say it, but Ms. D_______ is a complete moron. The Rape of the Lock test didn't go so well, either. She writes the most idiotic questions, and she doesn't know her grammar. What kind of English teacher defines a noun as a verb?

Ryan and I lost at doubles tennis.

Programming is merely a warmup -- I just read up on Red Hat installation so that it'll work when I get home...

And, needless to say, it doesn't. I think I'll have to put in a new motherboard. I didn't have enough time to fix it, so I drove off to pick up Lauren, two towns over. I hung out with her for awhile, then drove to work.

Work was awful, needless to say. My supervisor's been on my ass for weeks now. Maybe I'll quit.

I got back home and realized that I'd missed Boston Public after my 6:00-9:00 shift and forgot to tape it. Damn and blast British Telecom.

After that, I collapsed into bed, after loading up my November 4, 2002 daylog to see if it was accurate.

Needless to say, it was.

My wife and I were home after 4pm today to eat some dinner and rest for a few hours before we changed clothes and returned to the hospital. My daughter has been in the NICU since she was born, and each day seemed like an improvement. Dr. Temple had told us on Friday that McKenna would be home by this Monday. Tonight we were going to room in at the hospital and take her home.

I sat and watched the Redskins play while Heather took a nap and I glowed with the excitement of getting to take McKenna home. I had even gotten motivated to finish cleaning my office so the whole house would be clean when McKenna came home. As we packed our bags to return to Hershey the night watch doctor called us.

"Look, your daughter's having a lot of trouble breathing right now, and we're not sure what's going on, but it's obvious that she won't be discharged tomorrow." "How could this happen? She hasn't had any trouble for two weeks now?" "We're not sure, but we want to watch her for a few more days until we're sure that everything has cleared up. It may be nothing at all, it may be something serious, but we're just not comfortable sending her home yet."

My wife understood, I understood, I mean, how can I not? Hershey is a great hospital, that's why we went there, and the doctors are all top-notch, but part of me just wanted to scream in frustration "Enough Goddammit! She's my daughter and I'm taking her home with me!" I know having a tantrum wouldn't do me any good, and somehow, it would all come back to bite me if I did that, but it hurts. It hurts so bad. I want my daughter home. I have this terrible aching in my heart, a throbbing yearning that will not go away. I can't concentrate at work, I can't sleep at night. Everyone tells us that the NICU is the best place for her and that we should be happy that we have this time before she comes home to rest and get ready to have a baby at home and having to deal with the sleepless nights, but it sucks, and no one knows what this place feels like. Having your child in the NICU is being stuck in limbo, between elation and grief, relief and endless desire, happiness and pain, fear and comfort. McKenna isn't here, and my wife's belly is empty and I want to ball and mourn McKenna but I can't because she's alive. I want to rejoice because I have a beautiful daughter who looks at me and coos and gurgles and is the most beautiful little baby I have ever seen but I can't rejoice because I don't have her. The NICU has her. In a bed, with tubes, and heart monitors, and warming lamps.

All of this machinery to monitor and sustain her life and I'm supposed to bring her home without any of it, and trust myself to sleep through the night while she might stop breathing.

Everyone wants to know how she's doing, when will she come home, do you know yet, have you heard anything yet...
I've heard I have to wait more before McKenna comes home. I've heard that she's still having trouble breathing and that this problem we thought solved has returned. I've heard that my daughter, my beautiful baby daughter that I love like I never thought I could love, that I adore, can't come home yet.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell.

Hi there. This is my first day log, so please, stay your down-vote trigger-finger if I commit an awful daylog faux-pas. You need only to /msg me about it and it wont happen again.

I am writing this not because I am noding for numbers, becoming a fabled XP whore etc. I'm writing it because right now because I am absolutely, positively, 100%...

Pissed off

Why you ask??? Because right now, today, I have had ENOUGH of my goddamn computer. I mean it, I am fed up to the back teeth with this pissing machine. Allow me to venture briefly into the details of my silicon companion's actions this fine morn.

First of all, several weeks ago my Mandrake linux 8.2 installation broke. Why? Because the hard drive's partition table is permanently corrupted and can only be temporarily repaired. I fell back onto crap old Windows XP, and was briefly content. Earlier today I downloaded all three CDs of Mandrake 9.0, brand spangly new and everything. I had to delete some very good legacy porn to make way for the 1.4 gigabytes required to house the isos. An hour and 3 CD-Rs later I am in business, the install procedure starts and....

Kernel panic: VFS: Cannot mount root fs on 1:03

WTF??? I cry, and retry several times to no avail. 9.0 will not install. "Ah", methinks, "I will reinstall 8.2 and then use the 9.0 CDs to upgrade! I am a genius!!!" Unsurprisingly, this turned out not to be the case. I install 8.2, which takes the better part of another hour. Guess what. No nice pretty windows. All console. Why? Because 8.2 doesnt like my Geforce 4. I am cursed. I am pretty much screwed any way I turn. If this complaint seems minor to you, bear in mind that this is merely the logging truck that broke the rickety bridge. My wonderful machine also relishes crashing randomly, corrupting data I send to my DVD-RAM drive and hanging at those points that you really do need to save your work cos you havent saved in oooo about THREE GODDAMN HOURS.... I have hence come to the conclusion that all operating systems are crap.

Thank you for your time. I apologise if this is against daylog etiquette etc but right now I am frustrated enough to eat lead and piss bullets and frankly I dont give a damn.

Dear Dr. Everything,

Recently I have started to wonder whether my drug dealer is truly concerned about my emotional and physical health. I have known this individual for years now, and we have maintained a mutually beneficial relationship. He always holds back the "good shit" for me, and I occasionally get all fucked up on PCP and beat one of his competitors to death with a brick. Right now you could be thinking, "Why, this is such a healthy symbiosis that nothing could jeopardize this arrangement!"

Wrong.

Last week, my dealer — seeming to exhibit his benevolent nature — offered me a quick job. All I had to do was swallow a balloon filled with an unknown substance (tying one end of the string to the balloon and another to my tooth for easy retrieval) and deliver it to a man waiting at an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. To make a long story short, I got all fucked up and just smoked the shit.

The next day I went to my dealer, preparing to confess my failure in delivery service. Apparently he was already aware of my actions. I understand that I betrayed his trust and expected to be moderately disciplined, but I feel that the repetitive blows to the face and having my kneecap shot out was a bit over the top. Do you think that I can save our relationship, or should I consider moving on?

Please help,
Chemically Confused

Although I am not very religious, I find it hard to deal with someone who doesn't believe in any supreme being at all. As I was reading some philosophy homework, I was trying to figure out how people lived before anyone believed in a god. The concept of a supreme being seems so complex and abstract to me that I cannot conceive of someone simply thinking up the idea of a god.

People thousands of years ago had it tough just to live, how did they have time to think? Another argument would be their capacity to think or learn way back in time. I don't think they were very smart at all, if most of the ancient human representations are anything close to being true. Of course, in most of these representations, the cavemen seem mystified by simple things like fire.

It seems as if maybe they automatically think of a supreme being having control of such things. So if the idea of god is somehow planted in every human, this explains the question. If it does not, then the bible seems to be the only explanation. Then people really did experience god like the bible says.

Over the past few months, I’ve been addicted to the first person shooter, Medal of Honor: Allied Assault for PC, and more specifically its excellent online multiplayer mode. Usually these games are passing fads for me -- I play them for a month and never pick them up again (ex. Everquest). But I’m something of a military buff, and I have a soft spot for the World War II setting, so I’ve kept with it. I play regularly on the same server and even -- horror of horrors -- joined a competitive clan.

I never gave much thought to who the people I play the game with are, though. To me, they’re just anonymous handles attached to Axis or Allied avatars. After chatting with a few of them for some weeks, I’ve imagined their voices -- not unlike how I imagine voices for characters in books -- and have developed rudimentary online relationships with them. But they’re fictional -- they’re not real. Just as most online relationships tend to be (at least for me). Because you’re dealing with abstractions of human personality -- make believe identities that may or may not mesh with the reality of the person you’re interacting with.

That all changed this weekend when my clanmates urged me to download a freeware program called TeamSpeak, which allows players to communicate via voice while they play. This makes it much easier to discuss tactics -- and explains how some of the people I’ve played against seem to be coordinating with each other without accessing the in-game chat options. It makes sense, but I was a little nervous about it. I like to keep my online relationships at arms length -- I rarely meet people online. Hearing their voices -- actually talking to them in real time -- crosses a boundary I’m not comfortable crossing. I had my reality for the people I was playing with, and I was not interested in having it broken.

But alas, it was. Once I got TeamSpeak running, I learned just who my online buddies are -- and they’re not at all like me. From what I gather, they’re in two categories -- angry teenage boys and middle aged good ol’ boys. And both categories are about as far from me as you can get -- liberal, mid-Atlantic ex-punk rocker turned professional. I grew up working class -- and no doubt would have been one of the angry teenage boys if these games had existed when I was an angry teenage boy -- but I’ve changed so much that I’m no longer entirely comfortable with the people I grew up with, not that I ever really was. And I’m very rarely angry.

One of the teenage boys -- who I played with for weeks -- irritates me. He’s cocky and nasty and when things don’t go his way he describes them as “gay” (which to me is akin to calling someone the “n” word). There’s an edge to his voice that reminds me of the recordings I’ve heard of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, the Columbine killers. And this kid knows his military tactics. If someone were to assault a high school, he’d be a good candidate.

“Get to the rallying point!” he cried to his friend, another teenager.

“I can’t,” his friend replied, voice cracking. “The rallying point has been compromised!”

Another time, he issued a combat order: “Skritch (that’s his friend), I need you to take their left flank. I repeat -- I need you to flank them!”

“Roger!” replied Skritch.

Unfortunately, the attack plan was short-lived. “Fuck it!” the kid shouted. “My dad says it’s time to stop. Damn it -- that’s so gay.”

“Yeah,” Skritch replied. “That is gay.”

Pantaliamon and I couldn’t stop laughing. But part of me was creeped out by it too, especially given that the kid is always online whenever I am -- regardless of when I decide to play.

The rest of the players -- the older ones -- treat the teenagers as equals, which I suppose is cool, but it’s very strange to hear the interplay between forty year old guys and fifteen year old boys. They themselves seem like an affable bunch of guys, but I just can’t relate to them. Listening to them chatter about playing is like listening to truck drivers on a CB radio -- interesting from a sociological perspective, but what the hell do you say to them? I can’t help thinking that all these guys voted for George W. Bush, and think the war on Iraq is a good thing.

It’s strange being a liberal as well as a gamer. Most other gamers -- particularly in first person shooter games -- are conservatives. Despite my enjoyment of games of bloodlust, I’m more or less a pacifist in real life. I know this is a contradiction in my character, but I play the games to de-stress, and because of my interest in military strategy and tactics (another contradiction I’m sure), not necessarily for the simulated violence. I’m sure a lot of these guys are military buffs too, but I feel as uncomfortable being in their company as I am in the company of religious fundamentalists. Because I know that if they knew who I really was, they would hate me, just as the people I see on Fox News clearly hate people with my beliefs. I am an atheist and a leftist -- and to many people in America, maybe even most of America, I am the enemy.

Tonight, when I login for my hour or so of mayhem, I plan on keeping TeamSpeak off. Perhaps the illusion will return, and I’ll be able to enjoy playing again. But somehow I doubt it. Now that I’m aware of this strange party line discussion going on in the background, I’m unsure whether even my potent imagination is capable of resetting things back to the way they used to be.

I'm having a tough time choosing a name. Too many good ones.

Actually, let me start over again. During the past 6 months I've decided that Islam is the true path for me, and I've officially become a Muslim in July 2002. If you read my writeup on Islam, you'll see what I do now.

Putting all the obstacles and problems with my family aside for a moment (though I'd love to chat about how it's going, /msg me), one of the things I can do is pick a new name.

Like Confirmation for Catholics, it's recommended that you pick a new name, to symbolize your rebirth into your faith. It's not required of course (unless your name was Zeus or something Pagan), but I'd like to choose one anyway. I'm not going to have it legally changed, but I'd like to take on a nickname.

I have a few criteria, it must have 2 syllables (Sulayman is the exception), sound nice, and have a good meaning that matches what I am. Oh, and it should be masculine. I'll probably pick a first and middle, like 2 first names.

After poring over a list (www.ummah.net/family/masc.html) for a while, I'm still sort of stuck. There are so many good ones, that I can't really choose. Here's what I'm going to do. All of you pick one that you think is the best, and /msg me. It's not a vote, but I just want to see what people generally think. I'm not associating your name with what you say, so don't think about that. Either give me one or two or combine them into a good name, and I'll ponder. I'm not going to tell you what I think, and I don't know if anyone will change my mind.

The contenders I like best (in no order):

Karim, Kareem - Generous, noble, friendly, precious and distinguished

Bilal - Name of the Prophet's Muezzin who announced the prayer.

Sulayman - name of a prophet, Solomom, who also had treasure and an army of jinns

Tariq - The brightest star

Saladdin, Salahuddin -Righteousness of the Faith, a noble

Rashad - Integrity of conduct

Rashid - One of good council; rightly guided, having true faith

Nadeem - Friend

Jibreel - Archangel (Gabriel)

Azim, Azeem - defender

Aladdin - Nobility of Faith

Imran - father of Mary, a beautiful vision that takes your breath away

Jazakh Allahu Khair, Thank You
Hmm, I seem to have a few good ones, I never contemplated many of them before. I don't like really long ones though.

Kareem Nadeem
Sulayman Rashid Kareem
Talib (Student)
Tariq Kareem
plain Sulayman
Bilal Rashad (don't know if two first names work too well like that)
Sulayman Tariq Kareem Nadeem (As much as I like all those names, I don't know if I want that many)

ACTION COMICS WEEKLY NO.606. "THE TRUE BELIEVER" By Roger Stern (Writer), Curt Swan (Penciller), John Beatty (Inker).

Superman indicates the made kneel man to him that that is not necessary. The man him conversation that he only wanted to award honors to him. "I am Bob Galt, blessed gentleman, never had seen those men before and I believe that they were sent to interrupt my mission to contact with You, our rescuer". The police does not give credit to which it hears. The other police of the car has approached the scene and hears as the person says to them "If they cannot appreciate the sanctity of the person whom they have in front of them. His father sent it through stars to live between the men and to teach the way to them. He is the champion of the Humanity supporting the truth and justice, without waiting for nothing in return. With its great powers further on that anyone of us, mere mortals, how we would have to call it but Rescuing." Superman says to him to Bob that thanks for the credit that it gives him, that helps to people the best thing than it can but in spite of his powers it is not God. Bob answers to him: "But Superman..." and the Steel Man says to him: "Yes, Bob... Superman, remembers that." The Steel Man leaves to Bob with the police and leaves flying oyendo as Bob requests to him that it does not go away, that has come from very far looking for to him, running perligros...

CONTINUARÁ the NEXT WEEK.

http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/asimov/20/acweek.html
Rendered from Spanish to English by the Google translator

Existential Musings

Dedicated to Albert Camus.

Some external force
compelling me to write
is this God?
feels more like an exploration
into the nature of me.
words on a page
or on screen
don't justify life

still, they do a better job
than wasted hours of Diablo
or Phantasy Star Online.

I'm self-referentially ubiquitous
describing things I can't touch
feel or taste...
sometimes you just know.

would it be overly religious of me
to wonder whether I'm here for a reason
or some random act of universal kindness?
the Gods surely aren't humorless,
filling the depths of this wondrous place
with such utter absurdity

if God loves all her children,
why then, does she let us
do such hateful things to ourselves,
each other and the world?

Questions that can never be answered,
asked by one who claims not to care.
Absurdity still reigns.

Tonsilific Abyssmalness

I awoke at 4:00am unable to breathe. My mouth was continually filling with snot and forcing me to either swallow or spit. Around 5:00 swallowing was no longer an option - my throat was nearly sealed shut. After a short conversation with my mother (who is convienently situated on the opposite coast), I have been convinced to call 911.

Soon after, a firetruck and ambulance arrive unloading their cargo of about ten firepersons and ambulancors into my apartment. Repeatedly I'm asked what kinds of drugs I have and can procure. I say "you're not getting your damn hands on my vicodin." The fireman are not easily amused. The probably all have English degrees.

Pain. Riding in the back of the ambulance I realize that it probably was a good idea to call these motherfuckers. My throat feels like it was just used to clean up pizzeria after a big game. You know, chile cheese dogs, pizza, steel wool. The fucking thing is dry as hell too, and the supervising EMT-type won't lay off the small talk - "what kind of drugs do you have?" "what is your zip code?" "do you have a day time phone number?"

Lesson learned.. if you want service in the emergency room, arrive in an ambulance. When I was at the ER on Wednesday, I had to wait around for about two hours before they tried to take my pulse. Luckily, I had the laptop and a couple of DVD's. Everybody seemed to get a kick out of Frankenweenie.

For the next two hours doctors came in and out of my room, putting things in my mouth.. attesting to have to so.. preparing my for future oral violations. The final oral violation was the worst. I got the chance to see the ultra-sound photos of my tonsils. The plastic utensil dickwand wrapped up in a lambskin condom was no problem. It was the sticky pink silly spray shit that they coated my mouth with. Tasted like Nair for clown genitals. I was gagging up that shit for an hour.

After some hot antibiotic intervenus action with Evette, I caught an Alpha Cab and found myself home. I'm still only able to eat popsicles and can only swallow while wincing. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to eat those little Nancy's mini-quiches. Miracles happen.

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