there is not a sufficient number of projection websites, and those that exist i cannot refresh often enough.

MORE NEED MORE

i have completed my questionablecontent.net bingeing; i did it all in one firefox session; firefox is now using 435k; i did it for science

#316 panel 3 is my life

i now understand that a tuesday is an illusion. what we instead have is a failure of monday to cease—effectively a second monday.

this particular second monday started very early with a dream. in this particular dream i was a close personal friend of elliott smith.

elliott smith, it turns out, is a regular guy. i know this because i lived next door to him, and we were mates. he had legos on his bedroom floor, fantasy books on his shelves, an old home-built computer on the desk, a playstation under the television, outdated glasses. a card-carrying geek, if so unimaginative an epithet may be ascribed. he had a set of utterly loving parents and a cat who knew her name.

of course, elliott smith is no longer living in the strictest sense of the word, though this didn't keep him from speaking with me throughout the dream. and listen when i say that he's just like me. in fact, all throughout the dream, he didn't say a single thing that i myself wouldn't have said, were i in his position. the entire experience was eerily similar to talking to myself. i know what this is like because i do it most of the time.

i've long given up on the theory that dreams mean anything, but think about it this way: a good novel is one that lies to tell you the truth.

i'm trying to say something here, i just don't know what. it's been quite a long time since i wrote directly about a dream because it's a pretty cheap source of words, invariably flippant, ridiculous, meaningless, and meritless. it should, then, be regarded as a telling thing when it is about just such a dream that i now write, after such a long hiatus*. exactly why it is telling i leave as an exercise for the reader (hints are red herrings: there are multiple solutions).

*hiatus n. period of laziness. see also: respite, suspension, you have become a boring person

the stereotypical mother asks, 'if your friends went and jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?' the correct answer (into which, by design, you are pigeonholed) is no. and today, dear stereotypical mother, i gave the correct answer to this very question. i chose looking at arcane words and symbols on a page over following friends off an actual bridge. you'd be so hypothetically proud.

also. remember how i listen to carefully crafted vibrations in the air? it's a thing i was doing today. and by random, the song 'mai' by loudermilk came on. it mentions, specifically, the sixteenth day of may. tell me itunes is not sentient. tell me! tell me! you lie.

so there's this person.

this person has a name that i occasionally see written down, a fantastically beautiful name. it's nothing i've ever heard before and it just flows in my mind. wind through tall grass, that sort of thing. i hope you can understand i can't actually write the name down here; instead, think of rainbows and butterflies and flowers, and put that all into letters until the letter combination sounds like a warm summer sunday morning.

it may not seem like it on the surface, but i'm a very passionate person.* so the logical thing to do was to develop an immediate and intense name crush on this girl.

and then when her name comes up again a few weeks later it turns out that she isn't a she.

rationally i know nothing would ever have come of it (and i wouldn't have wanted anything, to be sure; i'm happily married and you cannot have me, miss mr beautiful name), but psychologically it was very disappointing. odd, some things.


all i want for christmas is 184 front teeth. please help. no one should have to choose between memory and food.



*not really, but it makes the transition easier.

we've completely moved. (but we have yet to finish moving in.)

every part of me is sore, I can't find anything I need, I didn't sleep well last night and niether did she, I'm not feeling well owing to having eaten only fast food and reconstituted pizza for the last week, my router ist kaput and I haven't yet explored all the ramifications of this, my fingers are rubbed raw from moving sandpaper-covered cardboard boxes from here to there and back again, and there was no room for the old couch in the new place.

but now I get to reorganize my entire collection of needless worldly goods. so it all works out in the end.


THOM YORKE please sing louder, the neighbors are pounding on the wall so clearly they cannot hear you well enough.

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and on and on and on.


finally, I have found that on which all emotion is based:

a radio is tuned into a frequency where nobody is broadcasting. the atmospheric noise picked up by the receiver is fed into a workstation through the microphone port where it is sampled by a program as an eight bit mono signal at a frequency of 8khz. the upper seven bits of each sample are discarded immediately and the remaining bits are gathered and turned into a stream of bits with a high content of entropy. skew correction is performed on the bit stream, in order to ensure that there is an approximately even distribution of 0s and 1s.

the bit stream is converted into hexadecimal format and fed via VLF radio waves through the ether into the very lowest of brain centers, where it is interpreted by a process that doesn't understand either the input or what to do with it, as (due to an evolutionary oversight) it can only read binary. so it reverts to its error-handling code, which tells it simply to pass on the raw, unfiltered data to its supervising brain function.

this supervising brain function expects to get nicely filtered binary data with helpful multimedia metadata (such as the brain-equivalent of a powerpoint presentation with screeching tire noises and animated bullet icons)—when it gets raw numbers in .txt format, its central processor puzzles over the problem until it overheats and restarts.

upon rebooting, the same data is sitting in its little organic inbox. the first thing the supervising function does is to tackle the same workload again, only to hit the same problem of raw vs. filtered data. after encountering ongoing critical errors and rebooting repeatedly for a few minutes, the supervisor's hardware shorts out and fails completely.

with no central system to interpret and govern the incoming data, it streams in without guidance, passing and bouncing through the brain at random, messing everything up and knocking everything over.

this happens at a very young age; in fact it is not long after the formation of the emotion center that the emotion center unhappily dies. the sad truth of it all is that emotion is completely random and possibly even dangerous! your brainwaves, yea verily the very stuff of thought is threatened! sanity's only hope is the tinfoil hat.