August 17th, 2005

Wednesday already?

Another day in Dilbert-world. I can't even concentrate enough to play minesweeper; the narcolepsy kicks in and I momentarily doze off. I've got some work I could *do* here, if I could do it. The "work" I'm supposed to be doing is no issue; I just answer the phone. It's an enlightened enough office that they don't *care* if I play minesweeper while I tend the phones as long as the job gets done. But it'd be nicer to get something *useful* done, like writing up my research proposal or doing a community design.

Riding the bike to work is working very well; I feel much better for the exercise.

Lapsing back into my coma,


(no subject)

Feeling more and more disconnected from reality. Trivia first; I've put on a bit of weight and the pants I'm wearing don't really fit. Oddly, wearing a too-tight belt is something cited as a major risk factor in coronary disease, so I have to do something about that.

The more political stuff wanders past me, the more aware I become that my brother is right and civil war is right around the corner. Here in the USA, not in far-off corners of the world. The neocons are violent lunatics, and will not be satisfied with anything less than owning and running the country as a private torture-park, and I only like to play those kinds of games consensually. And my Dad is in deep denial that anything really major is wrong; he does agree that BushCo are a bunch of criminal thugs, but feels that the System is Working, they'll be thrown out in three years, and All Will Be Fine.

But I've come to recognize that national politics is an opiate; any time I find myself paying attention to it, I'm using it to hide from something else that I might actually have to take action on. And I *know* what I need to take action on; I just don't know what action to take, or how.

More paper to sort; more phones to answer. It doesn't pay the bills, but at least it's a start.

Looking for food-pellets in the corridors,