“Our logic is full of holes...
I can see the bubbles.”
This part of the website is dead. It is kept online both as a public record and as a dreadful warning. For current content, please consult the root of this domain.
void* Randomness ( )
/* How are you gentlemen? All your James Joyce are belong to us! */
{
/* March 31, 2002 */
/* Back home now. Sleepy. In the end I got four hours sleep... going bedwards at 4 am and getting up at 8 for church this morning.

Ow.

Need sleep. Need... IT coursework. Ow ow double-ow. */
/* Well. Well. Is all I can say.

Today I killed a dialup adaptor comprehensively. I have now fixed it (I think), witness the existence of this post.

*phew* */
/* March 30, 2002 */
/* Music: Van Der Graaf Generator - Pawn Hearts - A Plague of Lighthouse Keepers

Note to self: must have more sleep.

In fact, just more life might help...

Back at Dad's now, yay! Been installing my old PC up here. It's a K6, no slouch. But urgh. I Hate Windows. It's so ugly.

Everyone has to go here to commune with the maggot :P.

I like this song. */
/* March 29, 2002 */
/* Quite happy... very tired.

Night night. */
/* March 28, 2002 */
/* <Asp_> although "Why do you *buy* onions" was more cryptic :)

Ben: Welcome to my world. I would, however, like to add one item to your list:

  • making me fall in love with someone to such an extent that I withdraw further and further into myself... and look like a cynical twisted bastard with desirability coefficient zero... then (and here's the really twisted bit) put me inside that, looking out through my eyes, hearing with my ears, yet not quite in control... and hating it. Then put me in a room with several of the most "beautiful" emotionally people I know, people who don't need to think about what they should be feeling, and watch me slowly gibber my way to being a little suicidal patch of jelly on the floor. Which is where (metaphorically) I am.


OK, so it's a little long for a list entry, but that's the story. Four years. Four long years. Four innertwisting outerburning emotionallyatrophying years. And now I'm sounding like James Joyce, but there are people out there reading this who know what I mean... you're probably not one of them. I said it before, and I'll say it again, all of those who I love (for want of a better word), that is to say deeply care about etc. are a long long way away. Either physically, seperated by the Ocean or the Solent or just plain distance... or emotionally. I can only talk to most of them by long distance communication, phone, internet, etc. all except one person who I love so deeply it hurts even now, after I've lost so much...

This doesn't make much sense. It doesn't need to. But that's why I've gone into my abstract world of object heirarchies, of digits, of punctuation, of colour, of light. It's also why I'm escaping from the Island at the end of the year.

My love... my poor love. I'm kind of writing to you even though you don't know who you are... but it's fairly safe to assume that if you're reading this, you're not her. Especially if you're male. It will all become clear. I promise. Just bear with me people, come about June-time, I'll leave the island so fast you won't see a vapour-trail... and then I'll send 1 e-mail. Only one, that's all that's required to put the final ironic cap on this part of my life. In fact, it doesn't really matter what the response is.

And I'm moaning and whinging and talking about myself again. For heaven's sake, someone hit me with something. */
/* March 27, 2002 */
/* I have finished my novella, so now I will embark on my greater and longer work of fiction: Information Technology Write-up. A stirring tale of innocence lost and object-oriented methodologies. And lots of coffee.

I like coffee. */
/* March 26, 2002 */
/* Well, the UI to my project works... so does the back end. Now to make them meet in the middle. */
/* March 25, 2002 */
/* More code. More code. More coffee.

Wetwang. */
/* March 24, 2002 */
/* Well, another day over.

Today I wrote 477 lines of non-visual Delphi code. Today I drank my way through a frightening amount of hot chocolate.

Today I ate Peanut butter.

Today I did all those mediocre things that make this blog so popular. Yeah right. */
/* I'm going to do IT coursework now. Did you want to know that? No. Did I want to do it (much)? No.

Am I going to do it? Yes, because I'm strong-willed and computer-mad. I'll drown all my sorrows in punctuation.

Ha. */
/* March 23, 2002 */
/* I wish I had something worthwhile to say... rather than filling the digital void with my meaningless mutterings.

I mean who wants to read this crap? */
/* I now have a keyboard in my room. No that isn't my room, nor is it my keyboard, but it's the same model of keyboard. Um.

This has something to do with The Adventures of Perkin Warbeck. Go there. Now. This is the advertising spot ;). */
/* March 22, 2002 */
/* "About the size," he intoned gravely, "of the church that services the parish of Wetwang." We all nodded sagely.

At this point, the door burst open, and seven men dressed in white burst in.

"You said it!" the leader said, and did seventeen cartwheels. By this novel method of progression, he reached Ben sitting at the computer. This latter worthy was rather taken aback, but continued to do his English coursework as if nothing had happened... and then my head fell off

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Power! I have power! And an Apple laptop. Wasn't it ice of Rob to gve it to me? He's so nice... He'd mnever be mean enough to take it away form me now... Not with my typnig-fu as it is. Grr. Fear my typing-fu. The typing-fu of the Gods, one could say. If one was lying. Err...

I am so dman pithy. See my pithy comments. Grr. Pithy typing-fu.


Thankyou Chris. As he-I said, their heads fell off.

Fortunately, I was only involved in shovelling the muck out of the IT office (where trained chimpanzees sat and were paid court to by a goggle- and google-eyed public) onto the rosebeds without. The loss of a mind did not affect this activity.

Bleep-bleep! His-her bleeper went off and the lion was released! It ran from its lair in Science down the stairs and accosted them-me by the portal. Thanking my lucky stars I had not had it surgically implanted, I took it off and threw it to the belua vasta, which ate and choked on it fnord.

This would have been bad enough, had it not been for the zombified head of Technology who persued me with a fretsaw; I was prepared for this eventuality, however, and I blessed him. At which point he fell over.

Fnord, fnord, say it loud! State it loud! Stay tit loud! FNORD!

Benedicite.

I would like to apologise to all those inconvienced by that day's events. But I really could not have avoided them. I rather thought I was getting a Sixth Form open day. Being the only survivor, I can be blamed.

But even there is no excuse for the sheer flexibilityy of the pizza we were served. It's not meant to flex, I told them, it's not meant to be quite so aerodynamic. To demonstrate I flung it out the window. It flew away. A convinving proof, but it lost us dinner.

Then We-It-Me got home, and mummy said:
"How was your day at school dear?" */
/* March 21, 2002 */
/* Wow... I'm getting hits from people I don't know ;). Hewo to anybody here who followed a link from the Chaos Astrology thingy... *smiles and waves* */
/* Only one more day before the Easter Holidays...

Only one more day before I have a break from my inadequacies being reinforced every single fucking day...

Only one more day before I regain control of my mind.

Just... one... more... */
/* I wish I was allowed to be in love. I'm not, of course. I just wish I was. */
/* March 20, 2002 */
/* Music: Van Der Graaf Generator - Pawn Hearts

I've been up at Durham uni these last few days.
I've got some diary entries from there, I'll post them tomorrow.

Tonight I'm knackered.
*/
/* March 17, 2002 */
/* We, as a family, en masse, went up to Shaftesbury today.

It was a very very odd feeling. I've not lived there for (thinks) over seven years now, and yet I still know my way around it; a map of it is engraved deeply on my heart. All the old shops, bringing back memories that I never knew I had, about people I'll never see again. A sad and weird feeling... if anyone is reading this from Shaftesbury, Dorset (well, it's an off-chance) that thinks they might have known me, drop me a comment below :P.

Such memories... am now slightly melancholy. Just about right to start work on MaggotLink, the new permalink system for maggot 16 which EVERYONE HAS TO GO TO. :P

*/
/* March 16, 2002 */
/* As Ben said, a "fucking massive" day for the maggot.

Go there. Do it NOW. I'm not going to resort to popularist tactics pornpornporn STOPPIT! but go there... we've been working on it loads ;P */
/* Well, the Chaos Astrology doodah is working ;).


Chaos Astrology by Terry McCombs
Bequizzified by Rob Mitchelmore


Go prod. */
/* Music: Krezip - Everything and More

I like this song. I identify with it, if you will.

when the aching is over i hope we can talk again
i hope that you'll understand me
i wonder if i ever will


See?

i wish i could tell you all
i hope that we'll both be wise, hey baby
just wish it wouldn't give this pain
and that it wasn't my fault, no
*/
/* March 15, 2002 */
/* Well, another day over. Spent all of today that I didn't spend moving my blog lazily moping.

I've also tried writing one of those 'net quiz thingies; it'll be online soon I hope.

Night all! */
/* Readers: (if such there be) I'm about to move this to to its new home. This should hopefully make lots and lots of luverly features available to me... and no more ads. I should also push Poncy Mens Retreat or maggot 16 or whatever the accursed thing is called at the moment.

Bear with me, people.

{Update} The move is complete. Plus you can now comment on entries. Woo. Thanks to BlogKomm for this.

{Another update} Thanks for the questionnaire, Jem. See it (if you must) here. */
/* "I should explain that "late-night trombone practices" is not a euphemism for some enviable sexual practice. It means late-night trombone practices" -- John Peel

We didn't win. Of course. I can't sing.

I can stop thinking about "music" now, and concentrate on being a really miserable bastard again. */
/* March 13, 2002 */
/* This song sucks. This song is rubbish. It's going to sound crap. Grunge/folk? Hah. Canine Excrement. */
/* I'm just about to leave school to practise our song for Thursday. The event is "by invitation only" and we each got four invitations; I've given all mine to the others 'cos I can't think of anyone I care about (who is this side of the solent, let alone the atlantic) who would want anything to do with me or mine.

In fact, I don't even quite know why I'm posting this. Blogspot's been down all day. 0 visitors.

Must look into ftp. */
/* I've done it again. I spent Maths this morning writing songses, or at least what passes for them. I finished the Irascible Rubber Egg... (the one which sounded rubbish) so it is almost lyrical. Um. Also the song "It's Not As Obvious As It Seems" is finished. */
/* March 12, 2002 */
/* Music: Us. Room 56.

Well, well, well. Spent this afternoon writing songs, or at least that's the theory. We came up with some lyrics that have got... something... but I don't like them. They lack elegance in some way, they're too obvious; they sound like they mean more than they do. As far as my personal views on this go, I think lyrics should always sound like they mean less than they do, then those who cannot or simply do not wish to care need not. There were a lot of negatives in that line.

But why on earth does it matter what I think?

We're performing on thursday. Haha. Looks like being the biggest cock-up since Custer decided to get all those Indians... */
/* "All this anal sex... in my day we said that the only right way in is the way with the doormat.

I dreamed again last night. Wow, you may say. Wow. How unusual. It's not that easy.

The subject of the dream was something of which I thought I had been cured... to whit, it was in fact a replay of the life-fuckup I've got planned where everything that could go wrong did. Anxiety dream maybe. But I've had this kind of dream before. Um.

The internet went down in school today so I couldn't post it when I wrote it. In addition, I have since learned we will be performing the Island Song on Thursday. Thanks for the notice, guys.

Grrrrr.
*/
/* March 11, 2002 */
/* Music: Bad sixties love songs which I was recording onto CD for my sister.

Oddly, this was one of the most profoundly depressing experiences that has happened to me recently. Everyone I love or care about suddenly seems a long, long way off... either emotionally or physically. Those close to me in purely physical terms I cannot touch... I cannot reach out and hug them or anything, I am all inward-turned... and those I could be emotionally close to all seem a long way away physically.

What's also bad is that I'm talking about myself again... blogging in general seems to be a halfway-house between ego-inflation and counselling, consigning all your troubles to the internetiform void; people do read this, I know that, I've got a little blue graph... but once they close the window, I cease to exist. So why am I writing about my feelings? Do peole really want to know that I've fucked my life up AGAIN? Do people need to know what I write, what I sing, what I think? No.

What they want is entertaining content. What they want is political comment. What they want is something IMPORTANT, or laughable-with, or identifiable-with or SOMETHING.

There is nothing to see here... move along. */
/* What I did in my maths lesson:

"Harmless little goldfish
Swimming in a tank;
Sometimes it floated,
Sometimes it sank."

What I was meant to do in my maths lesson: P3 Revision exercise 1.

Is it only me that senses a discrepancy here? */
/* March 10, 2002 */
/* "Flee in vain, O My heart; you are dead." - Monteverdi: Gira il Nemico Insidioso

Um.

On a tree by a river a little tom-tit
Sang "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit
Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow'?"
"Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried,
"Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"
With a shake of his poor little head, he replied,
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"


Weakness of intellect? Maybe. A tough worm? Tough spaghetti I'll admit to.

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,
Singing "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,
Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!
He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,
Then he plunged himself into the billowy wave,
And an echo arose from the suicide's grave--
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"


Drowning isn't the way I'd choose, but we all have our preferences. I don't think much of his dialogue, either.

Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name
Isn't Willow, titwillow, titwillow,
That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And if you remain callous and obdurate, I
Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,
Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"


Nothing to say. Nothing to contradict. Wow. Except possibly use of the word "bespangled". Personally, I prefer "pollocked" (no I've not spelt that wrong), but I know many people feel that isn't clear enough.

A completely pointless entry. Nice one Rob.

incomingnerd: I wanna know how much juice I can pull before the thing goes toasty */
/* Am now knackered; it's official. Spent much of today reading and mp3ing music... spent rest of it asleep.

Wow. What a day. */
/* March 9, 2002 */
/* Picked on by bullies like the United States and China, and constantly taunted by its other new peers as "Neutrality Boy," Switzerland, which Sunday decided to join the United Nations, is already regretting its decision, and wants to go home. */
/* Music: Unkle - Psyence Fiction

Alison on a baby goldfish: At the end of the summer, it'll go orange. That'll really confuse it.

A note to Chris: Welcome to the club. Should we go and rot in a corner somewhere?

Oh and another friend has joined in the wondrous world of blogging. Have fun. */
/* March 8, 2002 */
/* <Squirrel> I've just figured out why women are so strange.
<Squirrel> On every other system, you fsck before you mount.



You're Spike. An English badass. At least you were until they put that stupid chip in your head. And then you fell in love with the slayer... Snap out of it, man!

Find your inner vampire.



This worries me slightly.

Now? Pissed off, depressed, angry (again). How can you explain to someone that you can't tell someone else you loved them because... well... you're not important enough? (Still following this?) I know damn' well I'm nowhere near important enough to be loved in return by a certain person... and yet how can this be explained? Eugh icky feely things. */
/* It's a turnip? I thought it was a carrot.

Am watching "Waiting for Godot"; one of the best things I've seen for ages. Has the same nightmare-time quality as Ros and Guil but more, and darker, and sadder, and odder. Brilliant.

"Think, Pig!" */
/* March 7, 2002 */
/* OK, I've sold out. There's a graph at the bottom so I can depress myself alternately with the thought that so few people read my purple prose and the thought that people actually are reading it at all... */
/* "I don't like needles... but I do like Indiana Jones"




Wow... and speaking of shrooms... SHROOM!. I don't like advertising my own site, but it seemed relevant.


Which Action Star Are You? Find out @ She's Crafty

Yay! Is all that can be said. Of course, we know that there is no spoon because there is a chipfork. I'm using Bold too much today.

You are Rowlf!
You don't draw attention to yourself much, preferring to keep your cool and stay in the background
.




Red: 13/100 Blue: 18/100 White: 7/100 Yellow: 7/100

Take the Color Code Test
by Dano


I was very bored this lesson. */
/* A pox upon this formality... it's like armour. Nothing can get in, but nothing can get out either... I've just got to hope like hell I don't fart (metaphorically speaking). Then all someone has to do is to find a chink; and they don't even have to strike at it. All they have to do is to light a spark, a fire in me; and then *BANG*!.

How apposite. How useless. How me. */
/* March 6, 2002 */
/* Music: Necros/FM - Amber Poison

My head hurts. My shoulder (for some odd reason) hurts. I have nothing at all entertaining to say.

I have a chipfork in my pocket. Don't know why. Ben today handed me a printout of this story, which I wrote some little time ago. It's in a style similar to that of the Bagel, and may serve as a stop-gap, if anyone is anxiously waiting for the longer piece.

Final editing run on the Bagel is due in about two weeks. When I've got some criticism on the current version from friends.

How dull this post was. Judging took place for the song competition today apparently. Don't know if we won yet. Apparently there was only one other entry, which was obscene. */
/* March 5, 2002 */
/* "steve descovery for the day ..... be careful you put your girlfriends number in your phone some distance from your aunties number"

An ugly day.

Spent this morning reinstalling MacOS X after absentmindedly doing chmod 770 / on it. Not clever. It's an ugly OS. Technically, it works nicely, but I have come to the reluctant conclusion it's as ugly as XP as far as the user interface goes.

I then spent this afternoon installing Windows 2000. Another ugly OS. Eugh.

And then came home and listened to our recording of that song, which I hate. I sound like a foghorn being tortured. I can't sing any more.

I've been pissed off for three days. Maybe I ought to aim to set a nice round record like a week... */
/* March 4, 2002 */
/* http://college.antioch.edu/~totally/geek.html is so depressing and so true. Except for the startrek bits. Eugh.

Here sits a man close to nervous breakdown. See the head in the hands; smell the strength of that coffee; see the firm set of those knees. Look at the amount of code he has produced today. Watch.

Yes, I'm depressed. Yes, I'm upset. Yes, I think I know why. No, I'm not going to tell you. Hardly worth the visit, was it? */
/* Music: In physics. No music. Just Quantum Mechanics

This is very odd. Suddenly I am plunged into a black mood; fnord.
# My heart is allergic to the woman I love and it's changing the shape of my face -- Paul Simon

Chronosynclastic Infundibulum. Run, Spot, run. See spot run. Daz is a weener. I'm a pillock.

Good afternoon. */
/* March 3, 2002 */
/* Music: More of same...

Seen on etw:
<Gardener> there isnt any fecking cheese
<Gardener> DONT YOU UNDERSTAND?
<Gardener> THERE IS NO CHEESE
<cheesey> :-/
This at least confirms the deflation of the spoon hypothesis, because presumably only one thing can emphatically not be at once...

We (now titled Room 56) recorded that song (now titled Pond Life) today. It kinda worked. It's a lot better when properly recorded; the vocals could be heard which is good, and despite Jack's protests, the recorder solo is still in.

It's pretty much bedtime now. I'll sleep. I've school tomorrow. */
/* March 2, 2002 */
/* Music: See below...

Having looked at yesterday's post, I realise it really didn't make much sense. I'll leave it there tho', in case it makes sense next caffeine high.

Spent much of today attempting to record a song I wrote the lyrics and tune to... I've just heard it being hit with a guitar. It's not too bad, but I'm not really a hard musician. And they've not _quite_ got the hang of time signatures yet. But perhaps that's unnecessarily nasty.

Anyway, it's now (looks at clock) too late and I'm going to bed. Night night world. */
/* March 1, 2002 */
/* Music:
Decameron - The Ungodly
Recoil - Luscious Apparatus

The last I discovered only today, the first has been one of my favourites for a long time. They have little in common; but I find both good when I'm happy and sad at the same time and I want to cry but I don't know why and I feel very isolated. Consider:

"Find the ungodly and break them..."

"There was a toxic orange moon and it was slightly cold."

"I cannot be Moses, I cannot lead my children home, and so I sign my name here and here and here"

"That's just how some people are; their mouths get smaller with dreaming."

"I cannot be held responsible
My role is ill-defined."

"And when Carla was done carving, she went back to her workstation and scooped shiny white goop into jars."

"For this I'll be remembered, for only this I'll be remembered,"

"She knew Jack's ones were for carving himself."

"Find the uncaring and take them away..."

"Jack fell and impaled himself in the arm on his own knife."

"and for what they will become,
May God forgive them!"


It's a statement of a sort. But then again, I've been on a massive caffeine high for the last two hours, partly as a means of escape from life and then again partly because I made a much larger espresso than I intended to. It's not help in the escape bit, but the code I've been attempting to write did.

--- if you want to escape techiedom ignore the next bit ;) ---

I've fudged desktop controls. When I embedded a window on the desktop, there was a button on the taskbar that refused to go away (for the Application window). Even if I set WS_EX_TOOLWINDOW on Application.Handle it refused to go away. So I fudged.

Under ESSPO (tsh2 taskbar replacement) the taskbar is in a menu that pops up when you click on the window icon. When this icon is clicked, it uses EnumWindows() to get the handles of each window, then uses a helper function I wrote which applies exactly the same criteria as Explorer to work out whether it should be put in the taskbar. The key phrase in the above is "exactly the same", and indeed the irritating extra item appears here too. Some kind of denomination is evidently necessary for windows which belong to DECK. There is a time-honoured method of discrimination in this kind of dilemma, called a magic number. tsh traditionally (woo!) has a magic number of 4242. So a place to store this was needed.

GWL_USERDATA. See what I mean about icky fudge?

When GWL_USERDATA for the window = 4242, then ESSPO won't display it, nor will any other task managers that use CheeseLib. This will probably include all DECK task managers.

Oh well.

--- techiedom ends. Now read on... */
/* The Bagel is finished, or at least the first draft of it. It needs a lot of editing yet. Seven chapters of total rubbish, with meaning spurious and heavy showers later.

I wrote the Bagel in an attempt to sort out my head a little. It's a personality trait of mine that I dislike showing anybody at all how I feel, and this means that all emotions get bottled up inside until I snap. I was hoping that by writing, I could let my emotions out in a cryptic and entertaining manner, so that those that knew me could know what I felt, and those who didn't wouldn't. To be honest, I've had a terrible few years emotionally, at least partly because of that nebulous and incoherent concept known as Love; the bit of the Bagel that introduces and explains my feelings about that are taken verbatim (more or less) from conversations that I and the man who inspired Randolph had and continue to have. Only the simple bits are true and only the true bits are simple and there is no health in us. Editing and re-reading is at the same time an upsetting and uplifting experience: Did I really write that? I remember how it felt, how it hurt... but did I really put it into words thus?

It did hurt. It does hurt. I'll say that now openly and unreservedly; who am I to love? What right have I? I'm nearly cured. I'm nearly done. I'm nearly safe.

The Bagel is done; let all present rejoice. My mind is mostly sorted now. Away, dull care!

I feel miserable already. */
return 0;
}

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