profile

25yrs/ m/ aries/ year of the dog/ animation major/ illustration minor/ nicks: rurounibug; baskerville

tabulas links

indoglish

Entries for June, 2005

June 1st, 2005

exiled, need slash

I'm never online anymore. By the look of my tagboard, nobody cares. ^^

I don't have home internet yet, or even a land line. Phone guys are taking their sweet, sweet time about it. Bastards. I miss you AI guys. More to the point: I miss dirty online fics.

I've been html-ing web pages so I can pull a massive site oevrhaul as soon as I'm wired again, and punching out so-so original fiction so it will actually have new content and not just new backgrounds. (New backgrounds I think are cool and shiny, but will probably end up shit-tacular once uploaded.)

However, after the sink in the bathroom started to actievly spray water everywhere, my slightly-more-positive attitude has again plummeted. One little thing, and it makes one realise how not-okay you've been all along. I suppose I'm just at faking it. That and whining.

So, today, the nce folks who do a terrible job managing my building are knocking out my walls and ceiling. Maybe they'll fix the toilet while they're at it. Maybe they'll fix that leaky window.

I won't hold my breath, though.

So here I am, wandering the city and hanging in the library because I think watching people wade through my mess and bash in my drywall might just kill me. Also, because I need to get online and do trascripts, college applications, etc.

Its such a great week for massive home repair. Just when I'm at a deadline for everything. Oh, lordy. If ever there was a good time to be struck by lightning . . . .

One really shouldn't joke. Everytime I've joked about something else going wrong, something else did. When Murphy's Law and Bad Luck join forces, all sorts of interesting things happen.

Bat goddammit, this would all be much, much less awful if only I had access to dirty online fics.

rurounibug ; 04:22 PM|4 replies

June 23rd, 2005

cookie jar: out of reach

The computer gods are comspired against me.

While horribly misusing the CG Lab computers, (yay, internet!) I've discovered Mailing Lists have dissapeared and what's still there is suddenly labelled 'general pornograhy' and is inaccessible.

Which maybe says something about the groups I join. Heheh. Seriously, though; it's just the AMLA and YxA kinds of things. This sort of sucks, but at least I have thine blogs.

Also AI was down, so on the off change some of you come sniffing me out: I tried!

I'm finally getting my phone in. It's taking some doing, but once its on I'm gettin' me some SBC! I don't know why I was surprised that the phone line cables were disconnected and generally fucked up. Nothing in that apartment works right and every other week theres something new.

Right now theres a hole in my bathroom ceiling where they went in to fix the leaking pipes but haven't gotten around to fixing the drywall. I live in terror of squirrel inviltration.

I want to move so goddamn bad.

Hopefully into the city where I won't have to travel under the bay in earthquake country. I have fantasies of a 7-pointer and train cars and water . . . .

I'm making myself more neurotic every day. XD

rurounibug ; 04:16 PM|1 replies

June 27th, 2005

things

I have a bad relationship with Things. my apartment is full of crap I wish I didn't need. Granted most of that crap is books and clothing and kitchenware and furniture I really can't do without, but being surrounded by the jumbles of crap is making me cloustraphobic. I wish I could just hurl it all out and then lay on the floor in the middle of a blissfully empty room . . . .

The truth is, I need a desk for art school work and probably another for my computer so I can leave things set up and not have to arrange and re-arrange every time I need to work on something different. but I have a one room apartment with a front door and a aback door and a leaky window and that means no goddamn wall space to put anything where it: 1. won't be in the way of a door, or 2. get soaked when it rains.

I hate where I live so goddamn much. Also, I'm paying through the fucking nose for it. I'd rant about how people around the building keep talking to me, too, but my aunt has informed me that normal people talk to each other and that I'm neurotic as well as increasingly psycho and antisocial.

I'm not really, but when I come home I want to be left alone. Don't "G'day" and "How's it goin?" and "Wheres your dog?" me around where I live. I promise I won't be freindly. People are work and when I'm home I don't want to be in tiring social-mode. People should leave me alone and people just shouldn't fucking talk to me.

Uh, grr. ^^

So. Stuff. I have no place to put the furniture I need to get the crap I own put away, because the crap I own is taking up all the available, realiably not-leaked-on space. I need a dresser or drawers or something to get my clothes off the--well, off every available surface space, really. And I don't even know where a bookshelf will fit. I might just have to turf my (shockingly, embarassingly) large manga accumulation (it's far from a collection) and to be honest, its sounding like a more pleasant prospect by the minute.

Except that when I count it up . . . . How much did I spend on this junk? T_T

rurounibug ; 06:01 PM|fine, ignore me

June 27th, 2005

gay day

My Ma is in town visiting. She keeps doing my dishes and yelling about the dog-haired state of my couch. And the dust bunnies don't amuse her as much as they do me. Moving across the globe is no escape from parental harassment.

But all that being beside the point, I thought I'd take her out and show her the one true hallmark of my new city of San Francisco. No, not the Golden Gate: the pride parade--what my aunt calls the "gay day parade". She highly recomended it for touristy sight-seeing.

Mom preferred to go antiqueing.

Actually Mom said, "Myeh," made a face, and then declared she was going antiqueing.

And not that it really has anything to do with it, but my family has a way of avoiding the subject of me and my, uh, oddness. It goes like this:

dad: one day you'll meet a girl
ma: or uh, someone
dad: get married and settle down
ma: or whatever and well, you know, something

This is the closest we get to talking about, you know, stuff. When we talk about the you-know-stuff. Mostly, its tactfully ignored. Hell, I ignore it. Sometimes, back home, someone will say "How come you're not dating?" And I'll say, "No ones worthy," and cackle, and they'll roll their eyes and thats about it.

And yet, I find I'm kind of stung by her indifference. Sure, I had no great, deep, soul-searchful reason for wanting to go to the damn thing, but as a parent--as my parent--she could have faked some fucking enthusiasm. You know--just in case I'd been secretly, faggishly longing to go. I mean, I wasn't, but I could have been.

You know, back, back, way back in the day, when I was first logging on and uh, looking at, you know, things, I came across journals and essays and some parents give enough of a shit to at least read a book. Or some email. Or attempt exorcism. Or something.

You know, odd kids like me have a spectacularly high rate of suicide. Statistically speaking. That and we go straight to hell. If I had a kid like me, I'd be at least a wee bit concerned. Not that I'm that unbalanced or anything. I'm just saying: If I was my parent I'd be a little worried. And although I'm not exactly dying to get into a drawn out discussion of bees and birds redux with the folks, I'm getting just the slightest bit sick of being talked around.

Or, you know, something. Like, uh, stuff.

rurounibug ; 06:23 PM|fine, ignore me

tagboard

blogs and journals

fiction

the layout