After a week of waiting for them to tell me what my month-to-month rent would be, I called and found out they think I'm moving out on the 31st. That is the day I'm boarding a plane to philly. FUCK.
[edit]
They just called me. We worked it out that I will stay through september and the month-to-month rate is %34 higher than my current rate.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Hardy Boys and the Fuckers at Fountain Court
Fountain Court is the overpriced apartment complex that despite being one of many properties owned by a larger corporation doesn't accept direct deposit (or really any modern method of payment that is not a scam) located in Belltown, home to some crackheads and a lot of drunk people that are a bit too old for my interest.
Sometime during the bronze age, or maybe during the reign of the Roman Empire, people paid rent using paper checks that they had to drop off in a deposit box at the beginning of every month. My failure to adequately grasp this ancient relic of money transfer is the reason I was frequently late on payments and had to pay an extra 10 percent. That was my fault.
The apartment complex has twice gone back on verbal agreements. That is their fault. One time, it was a girl in the office accepting my payment. Some other bitch called me a week later telling me that even though they found nothing wrong with my personal check and even though they had accepted it in person, they were choosing to not accept it as a matter of policy and I had 12 hours to scramble together a money order for an amount far larger than standard ATM transfer limits.
The second time, I talked to a guy in the office about moving out on September 10th, me being tired of this history lesson with the paper checks. He said he was new and he'd have to ask his managers. This guy called me later to say that it was fine; I could pay $X which was the prorated rent for 10 days of September and if I could just bring the check and a written notice of moving out I would be all set. So I dropped off the check Friday afternoon.
Friday night, I nearly put down $1000 on another apartment starting September. I was pretty pissed that the guy showing the apartment didn't tell me someone else had already put money down before I drove all the way up there. Turns out, if I had gotten the apartment, I'd have some financial issues with the apartment double booking. Then on Saturday I received a phone call from someone else in the Fountain Court office saying that her boss said "no way." WHAT THE FUCK.
My renewal agreement from last year does say it can only be modified in writing, but who hands out verbal agreements they intend to break? The person to called me on Saturday offered me 12 and 8 month contracts (both better than the 15 month I'm currently getting out of) for a higher price than I pay now, sounding kind of surprised that I didn't want to stay there. I mean, who doesn't like being lied to? I made it clear several times that I will be going month to month and moving out as soon as I can do so without violating a contract.
The office screwed up the renewal offer for the end of my lease this year. They normally send out an "offer" that raises your rent by like $200 if you don't sign a new lease and just go month to month. This year, I first received a renewal offer for someone else (who has lower rent than I do) and then I received one for me but a month early and with the wrong information regarding the end of my lease.
I've talked to friends elsewhere. They have all said that after the first year, their rent does not go up when the lease lapses into month to month. I find that interesting. Also, the renewal offer has text like "if you do not reply, we will take that as acceptance of the [higher] month to month rate." This reminds me of something in business law 101. I checked the terms of my renewal agreement. It doesn't say anything about them being able to unilaterally raise the rent on you. It is my theory that they use these "renewal offers" to jack up the price (since you accept the price without replying) and no one realizes they have the option to respond and say "I don't accept the jacked up price, you scheming fuckbags. I'll take the month-to-month rental price I earned by being stuck here for 15 months."
I have not tested this theory. My current place is to find out how much I need to pay month-to-month for September, write my last check, and get the fuck out of here come October 1. If they try to prevent me from doing that, I will lawyer up. I really want to avoid that though. Not only is it expensive, but lawyers always make you sign paper agreements which require stamps to mail.
Fountain Court has a facebook page...I'm tempted to post this story there shortly before I move out. Ooh, and the better business bureau. Admittedly this story isn't that bad--mostly just possibly-deliberate incompetence and sharp businessmanship on their part.
Moral of the story: Seriously, I need to read Hardy Boys again.
Sometime during the bronze age, or maybe during the reign of the Roman Empire, people paid rent using paper checks that they had to drop off in a deposit box at the beginning of every month. My failure to adequately grasp this ancient relic of money transfer is the reason I was frequently late on payments and had to pay an extra 10 percent. That was my fault.
The apartment complex has twice gone back on verbal agreements. That is their fault. One time, it was a girl in the office accepting my payment. Some other bitch called me a week later telling me that even though they found nothing wrong with my personal check and even though they had accepted it in person, they were choosing to not accept it as a matter of policy and I had 12 hours to scramble together a money order for an amount far larger than standard ATM transfer limits.
The second time, I talked to a guy in the office about moving out on September 10th, me being tired of this history lesson with the paper checks. He said he was new and he'd have to ask his managers. This guy called me later to say that it was fine; I could pay $X which was the prorated rent for 10 days of September and if I could just bring the check and a written notice of moving out I would be all set. So I dropped off the check Friday afternoon.
Friday night, I nearly put down $1000 on another apartment starting September. I was pretty pissed that the guy showing the apartment didn't tell me someone else had already put money down before I drove all the way up there. Turns out, if I had gotten the apartment, I'd have some financial issues with the apartment double booking. Then on Saturday I received a phone call from someone else in the Fountain Court office saying that her boss said "no way." WHAT THE FUCK.
My renewal agreement from last year does say it can only be modified in writing, but who hands out verbal agreements they intend to break? The person to called me on Saturday offered me 12 and 8 month contracts (both better than the 15 month I'm currently getting out of) for a higher price than I pay now, sounding kind of surprised that I didn't want to stay there. I mean, who doesn't like being lied to? I made it clear several times that I will be going month to month and moving out as soon as I can do so without violating a contract.
The office screwed up the renewal offer for the end of my lease this year. They normally send out an "offer" that raises your rent by like $200 if you don't sign a new lease and just go month to month. This year, I first received a renewal offer for someone else (who has lower rent than I do) and then I received one for me but a month early and with the wrong information regarding the end of my lease.
I've talked to friends elsewhere. They have all said that after the first year, their rent does not go up when the lease lapses into month to month. I find that interesting. Also, the renewal offer has text like "if you do not reply, we will take that as acceptance of the [higher] month to month rate." This reminds me of something in business law 101. I checked the terms of my renewal agreement. It doesn't say anything about them being able to unilaterally raise the rent on you. It is my theory that they use these "renewal offers" to jack up the price (since you accept the price without replying) and no one realizes they have the option to respond and say "I don't accept the jacked up price, you scheming fuckbags. I'll take the month-to-month rental price I earned by being stuck here for 15 months."
I have not tested this theory. My current place is to find out how much I need to pay month-to-month for September, write my last check, and get the fuck out of here come October 1. If they try to prevent me from doing that, I will lawyer up. I really want to avoid that though. Not only is it expensive, but lawyers always make you sign paper agreements which require stamps to mail.
Fountain Court has a facebook page...I'm tempted to post this story there shortly before I move out. Ooh, and the better business bureau. Admittedly this story isn't that bad--mostly just possibly-deliberate incompetence and sharp businessmanship on their part.
Moral of the story: Seriously, I need to read Hardy Boys again.
Friday, August 12, 2011
[Fiction] The Miller Angle, Chapter 2
Tires hugged the road like two fingers running along a girl's breast. Biff had the radio on low. Yeah, this was in the old times. Biff's crew would have had the lighthouse running, but it was a clear night, and they were a chillin for a spell anyway. Biiff drove until the sun went down and he caught glimpses of stars when he dared take his eyes off the road. He had a two day stubble and a growing need to take a shower. His eyes were duller than usual, and drooping with fatigue, but he couldn't sleep. He pulled his car into Wilson's tire garage. Jason was there.
"What's up, boss?"
"I don't know."
"You get spotted or just felt like driving around aimlessly all night?"
Biff nodded. "Got something in my head and I can't get it out."
"Something?" Jason smiled. "Or someone?"
Biff shook his head.
"You know girls are trouble."
"I know."
"You said that."
"I know."
"And then you slept with like five hundred of them."
"...I know."
The boys came over. They were working on another car and arguing over the exact set of circumstances that required one to break up with a girl in person verses over the phone. One of them had the, you know, audacity to suggest that sometimes you didn't even need to call. Bullshit, but it was distracting.
Rewind. Back to the sunset. Change location to Watershed Drive. Now we're on to Christine.
"Christine! Fuck!" That was her brother's polite way of telling her that someone was at the door. He'd just left the door hanging open with the deliveryman on the porch. The wrong kind of deliveryman.
Christine's maps usually came via the post, but this was an express carrier. He was holding the familiar cardboard tube though. Was it a ruse? For a second she was worried that the police were about to storm in and blow in the windows and slam her face in the ground and scream in her hear that they were going to blow her fucking brains out if she moved. But there was no one else in the driveway. No cars, no vans, no swat team gearing up for a knockless warrant. Just a guy in a uniform.
Christine signed for the package and realized it was too heavy. She wanted to pry it open right then and see what was inside, but the watchful gaze of her mother was bearing down on her from the kitchen. Every discussion with her was just more questions, more judging. Christine dropped the package with the other cardboard tubes.
Later that night, she snuck down stairs while her family watched a gory horror film, the kind that was like porn but with death instead of sex.
Christine sat on her bed to open the package. Above her head was a large pictures of jagged cliffs rising out of the surf on some far away beach. At least, thats what they looked like a first. Those cliffs were painted to resemble a girls legs and arms. Such posters were completely unnaceptable in that house. Christine had left it up just to see if her mother or brothers would ever realize what it was. They never did.
Christine opened the package. Indeed, it was no map, nor of any relation to her known hobbies. It was a sword. It was sharp. There was a dirty, cloudy jewel at the bottom on the hilt. Christine held it in her hands, admiring it for a second. Who would send her a sword? There was a note attached like a price tag. In fact, it was a price tag, with this message written in ink: "So that you can fight your own battles." Oh. Him. Christine pictured Biff in her mind, squaring off against her taller, stronger brothers like a wildcat.
She closed her fist around the handle. It felt good. Surprising. She never had an interest in swords. She turned it over in her hands, contemplating what kind of hilt she could sew, and what colors to add, what it would go with. What it would go with? What, a dress? She couldn't wear this in public. Christine hid the sword under her bed.
Christine opened the window in her room. It made her room cold, but the window was noisy and she had to do it while they were still watching the movie. She poked her head outside and listened. She couldn't hear anything--anything other than crickets. When the movie ended, Christine was poised and ready. She was waiting with one boot on the sil, staring at the patch of light on the ground that came from her mother's bedroom on the first floor. The moment it went out she climbed and dropped. The ground outside her mothers window was soft, and she pulled her legs in at the last second, making a nearly soundless landing. She'd done this a hundred times, and was an expert at it.
She slid around the side of the house and took off in a soft run at the exact angle that would make her invisible to the bedroom windows of the remaining occupants of the house. Then she was in the corn field. Her corn field, regardless of whichever farmer was legally renting it. There was a movie they had seen when they were kids, involving a monster in a corn field. Her brothers had been kept wide awake with nightmares. She could still remember her mother scolding her father, saying "why did you show them that?" But she had no nightmares. Any monster in this corn field would have to deal with her.
On the other side of the field, there was a tarp-covered pink sportbike hidden in a grove of trees. The tarp itself had branches and leaves glued to it. Christine's mother had often complained about the noise their "reckless neighbor's" motorcle made, having no idea it was actually Christine's. It was only her mother's passive aggressiveness that prevented her from discovering that her neighboor had no sportbike, and in fact himself wondered why his neighboor let her daughter ride one in the middle of the night.
Christine uncovered the sportbike. She had painted it herself, but you wouldn't think a professional had done it if you saw it. She dug into a bag and stripped off her jeans. A beam of moonlight glanced of a white thong as she hopped on one foot, trying to get the tight riding suit on. She hoped the neighboor couldn't see her.
Christine started the bike and watched 45 seconds tick by on her watch. Then she was off.
Back at the garage, Jason was interrupting Biff.
"No way," he said.
"Huh? You were there," said Biff.
Jason didn't answer. He and everyone else were all staring behind Biff. Biff turned around.
Christine--sportbike Christine--was strolling in through the open garage doors, pink jumpsuit and all. None of them had heard her approach. The boys whistled.
"Hell if it ain't the pink ranger," said one of them.
She stopped in front of Biff. "You sure do a lot to get a girl's attention. I don't think I ever gave you my home address."
"I don't think you've ever said more than five words to me."
"I was probably too busy rolling my eyes."
Biff grinned. "Is that what you do inside that helmet?"
"Well I also make faces."
Someone burst out laughing.
"What kind of faces."
"Oh, you know...happy faces...sad faces...boys-are-dumb faces...boys-are-dumb-cause-they-think-driving-fast-impresses-girls faces, boys-are-ridiculous-and-try-to-hard-faces."
"So I guess you didn't like my sword."
"No, I liked your sword very much."
Now everyone burst out laughing. Everyone but Biff and Christine.
Biff grinned a little to widely. "Maybe you'd like to-" Christine slapped him.
"Don't be inappropriate with me. I want the full deal. Whatever you do for all the other girls. And don't be dirty."
"What other girls?"
"Listen. I know you're a whore. But I understand. You're disadvantaged that way, because you're a boy."
Biff was speechless.
"Are you going to take me out or what?" asked Christine.
"What, now?"
"This is your one chance kiddo. I turn into a pumpkin by sunrise."
Biff stuck his elbow out. "Right this way, m'lady."
Christine took it. "Much better. Where are we going?"
"The backseat of my--hey you wanted the full treatment. Ok the front seat. My car."
Biff turned the key and they listened to the engine growl to life. Then he pushed a button on the dashboard with a first aid icon on it. The glove box opened in front of Christine, spilling out cold carbon dioxide gas from dry ice over her legs and exposing two chilled cans of mountain dew. They clinked cans like they were wine glasses, and the adventure began.
Christine fiddled with the radio.
"What the fuck is that?" asked Biff.
"Your new favorite song."
"This isn't conducive to my driving."
"Like you need encouragement to drive fast."
"You're one to talk. I need to haul ass just to keep up with you."
Christine looked out the window and smiled.
"What's up, boss?"
"I don't know."
"You get spotted or just felt like driving around aimlessly all night?"
Biff nodded. "Got something in my head and I can't get it out."
"Something?" Jason smiled. "Or someone?"
Biff shook his head.
"You know girls are trouble."
"I know."
"You said that."
"I know."
"And then you slept with like five hundred of them."
"...I know."
The boys came over. They were working on another car and arguing over the exact set of circumstances that required one to break up with a girl in person verses over the phone. One of them had the, you know, audacity to suggest that sometimes you didn't even need to call. Bullshit, but it was distracting.
Rewind. Back to the sunset. Change location to Watershed Drive. Now we're on to Christine.
"Christine! Fuck!" That was her brother's polite way of telling her that someone was at the door. He'd just left the door hanging open with the deliveryman on the porch. The wrong kind of deliveryman.
Christine's maps usually came via the post, but this was an express carrier. He was holding the familiar cardboard tube though. Was it a ruse? For a second she was worried that the police were about to storm in and blow in the windows and slam her face in the ground and scream in her hear that they were going to blow her fucking brains out if she moved. But there was no one else in the driveway. No cars, no vans, no swat team gearing up for a knockless warrant. Just a guy in a uniform.
Christine signed for the package and realized it was too heavy. She wanted to pry it open right then and see what was inside, but the watchful gaze of her mother was bearing down on her from the kitchen. Every discussion with her was just more questions, more judging. Christine dropped the package with the other cardboard tubes.
Later that night, she snuck down stairs while her family watched a gory horror film, the kind that was like porn but with death instead of sex.
Christine sat on her bed to open the package. Above her head was a large pictures of jagged cliffs rising out of the surf on some far away beach. At least, thats what they looked like a first. Those cliffs were painted to resemble a girls legs and arms. Such posters were completely unnaceptable in that house. Christine had left it up just to see if her mother or brothers would ever realize what it was. They never did.
Christine opened the package. Indeed, it was no map, nor of any relation to her known hobbies. It was a sword. It was sharp. There was a dirty, cloudy jewel at the bottom on the hilt. Christine held it in her hands, admiring it for a second. Who would send her a sword? There was a note attached like a price tag. In fact, it was a price tag, with this message written in ink: "So that you can fight your own battles." Oh. Him. Christine pictured Biff in her mind, squaring off against her taller, stronger brothers like a wildcat.
She closed her fist around the handle. It felt good. Surprising. She never had an interest in swords. She turned it over in her hands, contemplating what kind of hilt she could sew, and what colors to add, what it would go with. What it would go with? What, a dress? She couldn't wear this in public. Christine hid the sword under her bed.
Christine opened the window in her room. It made her room cold, but the window was noisy and she had to do it while they were still watching the movie. She poked her head outside and listened. She couldn't hear anything--anything other than crickets. When the movie ended, Christine was poised and ready. She was waiting with one boot on the sil, staring at the patch of light on the ground that came from her mother's bedroom on the first floor. The moment it went out she climbed and dropped. The ground outside her mothers window was soft, and she pulled her legs in at the last second, making a nearly soundless landing. She'd done this a hundred times, and was an expert at it.
She slid around the side of the house and took off in a soft run at the exact angle that would make her invisible to the bedroom windows of the remaining occupants of the house. Then she was in the corn field. Her corn field, regardless of whichever farmer was legally renting it. There was a movie they had seen when they were kids, involving a monster in a corn field. Her brothers had been kept wide awake with nightmares. She could still remember her mother scolding her father, saying "why did you show them that?" But she had no nightmares. Any monster in this corn field would have to deal with her.
On the other side of the field, there was a tarp-covered pink sportbike hidden in a grove of trees. The tarp itself had branches and leaves glued to it. Christine's mother had often complained about the noise their "reckless neighbor's" motorcle made, having no idea it was actually Christine's. It was only her mother's passive aggressiveness that prevented her from discovering that her neighboor had no sportbike, and in fact himself wondered why his neighboor let her daughter ride one in the middle of the night.
Christine uncovered the sportbike. She had painted it herself, but you wouldn't think a professional had done it if you saw it. She dug into a bag and stripped off her jeans. A beam of moonlight glanced of a white thong as she hopped on one foot, trying to get the tight riding suit on. She hoped the neighboor couldn't see her.
Christine started the bike and watched 45 seconds tick by on her watch. Then she was off.
Back at the garage, Jason was interrupting Biff.
"No way," he said.
"Huh? You were there," said Biff.
Jason didn't answer. He and everyone else were all staring behind Biff. Biff turned around.
Christine--sportbike Christine--was strolling in through the open garage doors, pink jumpsuit and all. None of them had heard her approach. The boys whistled.
"Hell if it ain't the pink ranger," said one of them.
She stopped in front of Biff. "You sure do a lot to get a girl's attention. I don't think I ever gave you my home address."
"I don't think you've ever said more than five words to me."
"I was probably too busy rolling my eyes."
Biff grinned. "Is that what you do inside that helmet?"
"Well I also make faces."
Someone burst out laughing.
"What kind of faces."
"Oh, you know...happy faces...sad faces...boys-are-dumb faces...boys-are-dumb-cause-they-think-driving-fast-impresses-girls faces, boys-are-ridiculous-and-try-to-hard-faces."
"So I guess you didn't like my sword."
"No, I liked your sword very much."
Now everyone burst out laughing. Everyone but Biff and Christine.
Biff grinned a little to widely. "Maybe you'd like to-" Christine slapped him.
"Don't be inappropriate with me. I want the full deal. Whatever you do for all the other girls. And don't be dirty."
"What other girls?"
"Listen. I know you're a whore. But I understand. You're disadvantaged that way, because you're a boy."
Biff was speechless.
"Are you going to take me out or what?" asked Christine.
"What, now?"
"This is your one chance kiddo. I turn into a pumpkin by sunrise."
Biff stuck his elbow out. "Right this way, m'lady."
Christine took it. "Much better. Where are we going?"
"The backseat of my--hey you wanted the full treatment. Ok the front seat. My car."
Biff turned the key and they listened to the engine growl to life. Then he pushed a button on the dashboard with a first aid icon on it. The glove box opened in front of Christine, spilling out cold carbon dioxide gas from dry ice over her legs and exposing two chilled cans of mountain dew. They clinked cans like they were wine glasses, and the adventure began.
Christine fiddled with the radio.
"What the fuck is that?" asked Biff.
"Your new favorite song."
I'm gonna call when you're alone
I'll be your angel on the phone
I'm gonna save you tonight
The way you're barely getting on
All you gotta do is listen to my song
I'll be your angel on the phone
I'm gonna save you tonight
The way you're barely getting on
All you gotta do is listen to my song
"This isn't conducive to my driving."
"Like you need encouragement to drive fast."
"You're one to talk. I need to haul ass just to keep up with you."
Christine looked out the window and smiled.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
American Justice
Possible Villains:
http://www.cnn.com/2011/CRIME/08/12/pennsylvania.judge.sentenced/
General Inspiration:
http://www.deseretnews.com/article/700170210/Doughertys-did-little-to-conceal-themselves.html
http://www.cnn.com/2011/CRIME/08/12/pennsylvania.judge.sentenced/
General Inspiration:
http://www.deseretnews.com/article/700170210/Doughertys-did-little-to-conceal-themselves.html
So Take this Night
There's a game
That I play
There are rules
I had to break
There's mistakes
That I made
But I made them . . .
My way
That I play
There are rules
I had to break
There's mistakes
That I made
But I made them . . .
My way
A guy on my team moved up here from Cali a few months ago. Within that time he's landed a hot girl who is not a nerd* but who has a tattoo of the rebel alliance symbol. I've been here for more than two years, and...with the exception of a few unpublishable stories, my track record in this city is well known, and dismal in comparison.
Him, this girl he's dating, another teammate and I went to a cool live show. Like, really good music. I'm not used to going to small venues and hearing good music. The last time I tried that, it was set up by this girl I knew in college and the music was...not great. Also the one act was this kid who was like singing in his underwear and felt the need to stare directly at me during the bridge of one of this songs. I was one of about 5ish people in a room that could fit 20 or 30. However, if the music can be good, I want to start going to these, especially after seeing Scott Pilgrim vs the World. Anyway. I opened with captain and cokes. My friends made fun of me for not branching out, and I put forth as evidence that one time at the Irish bar that I got a captain and ginger.
The waitress asked if I wanted a single or double shot. The last time I did double shots, I had a three day hangover and couldn't drink rum for a month. Interestingly enough, I got back into rum in Atlantic City, which was the venue for Corona Night. Anyway. So until this morning, I've always felt like a bit of a pussy for getting single shots. Don't tell me how I should think about it; I don't care. So after 3 or 4 single shots I asked to switch to double shots. Actually that wasn't the reason at all. I was looking around and realized that I wasn't enjoying myself...I caught myself thinking how great this would be in the future, and I could come back here later with a girl I liked. I've been sleeping with future and later and next time for more than five years now and frankly they suck in bed. So instead I told myself I should just enjoy the night, and this time I didn't even have my own girl there locking me in the friend zone. I was like the plus one of a third wheel. However, my volleyball team has lost our last game that night, ending our season only halfway towards our goal of winning two games, and I realized I'm not getting any younger, so I tipped my glass back and told myself to enjoy the night. Which I did.
Until I asked for double shots. I'd already had 3 or 4 "single shots" and I could barely taste the captain and I felt completely sober. So I thought maybe the "double shot" was their word for a...real captain and coke. The first one came in a tall glass. It was basically as if you took two captain and cokes and put them in a big glass like pizza shops used. Hot Rebel Alliance Girl, as I've just now decided to call her, is a bartender and told me I should asked for a double short. So I did.
The waitress said something to the effect of "no problem" and came back with two of them. Two double-shots in lowball glasses. Another thing I hate doing is drinking a captain and coke so slowly that the ice melts, and I told myself that wasn't going to happen this time. So I double-fisted and took care of business. And that's when the night went south.
I remember stumbling back and forth to the bathroom. Texting Laura to ask if she knew where her towel was (because the hip hop group on stage was doing an awesome rap piece about Hitchikers Guide) and saying "fucking girls" really loudly when she didn't respond immediately even though it was like 3 or 4 in the morning where she lives. Yeah. Its pathetic that I still think of her. I also remember telling the waitress I didn't understand when she handed me the bill and later sitting in 5 Point Cafe trying not to vomit.
I held my liquor that night. Unfortunately I passed out on my bed before I could drink an adequate amount of water and woke up with a hangover. That's when I decided that I'm done with double shots.
On my way to work I bought pickles (because a Russian kid I met here insisted that pickle juice is a magical russian cure for hangovers) and a container of watermelon slices (because I love watermelon). The pickles tasted like shit but the watermelon was delicious and made me feel better.
This is the paragraph where I was going to go on about various girls, including mentioning Jess and Betsy and hints of stories I never intend to actually tell. While listening to this Black Lab song. So, pretend I did all that.
The moral of the story? Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, you can choose to have a good time. You can choose to say no to double shots.
*Where I come from, nerd is the more pejorative of the pair (nerd,geek). I don't like being seen as a geek either, unless I find it useful.
//TODO: learn this song
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Leaf Nodes :(
8:41pm on a wednesday night. Some girl just not only decided that I wasn't her type, but that she wasn't my type. Fucking bitch. I have the whole "my type" thing under control, thank you very much.
So now...I just wasted $20 in martinis on a leaf node. I have this sudden feelling like I need to reclaim wednesday night, lest it be lost in the void of failed attempts. Can't decide what to do...I guess that's obvious, because if I had figured something out I'd be out doing it. I'm a little too buzzed for the Aprilia :(
[Edit]
9:24pm -- melancholy turned to anger. Thats only ...43 minutes. Badass.
So now...I just wasted $20 in martinis on a leaf node. I have this sudden feelling like I need to reclaim wednesday night, lest it be lost in the void of failed attempts. Can't decide what to do...I guess that's obvious, because if I had figured something out I'd be out doing it. I'm a little too buzzed for the Aprilia :(
[Edit]
9:24pm -- melancholy turned to anger. Thats only ...43 minutes. Badass.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Damn it Feels Good to be a Programmer
Real gangsta-ass niggas don't talk much
All ya hear is the black from the gun blast
And real gangsta-ass niggas don't run for shit
'cause real gangsta-ass niggas can't run fast
All ya hear is the black from the gun blast
And real gangsta-ass niggas don't run for shit
'cause real gangsta-ass niggas can't run fast
One of the online websites I troll has a "personals" forum where lonely people try to find someone that meets their unrealistic expectations. Most of the posts are from men, but occasionally a girl posts and is then flooded with 75 to 100 messages, most of which are pathetic one-liners. On top of all this I've observed an unusual dynamic: trolls. More like...mini trolls. Unlike their distant 4chan-style cousins, these trolls don't appear to have the typical sociopathic motivations of inciting rage and sowing discord. They are far less diabolical but far more in number. They descend like vultures upon most of the posts to bitch at the poster. Sometimes another troll or the occasional reasonable person responds, and then the personal ad devolves into an irrelevant flame war. I think a lot of people on this site are just negative. Negative nancies (and mancies).
I came upon one of these because I saw that one of my "friends" (on the website) had posted a response. There was one guy who was just posting over and over bitching on nitpicky semantics, and generally being a dick. So I made what I think is a perfectly reasonable move and spent 20 minutes installing greasemonkey, learning javascript, and creating a script that would censor posts made by users that matched a hardcoded array of douchebags. I then posted the entire script in the hijacked personal ad, with the hardcoded array prominently featuring the username of the guy who was being a dick.
I've been aware of greasemonkey for years, and it never held much interest. I gave up javascript back when Firefox was heating up and the IE team had Microsoft had just been reactivated for more incompatibility skirmishes among the wreckage of the ancient browser wars (like Sith hunting jedi after the clone wars) because I was sick and tired of writing correct javascript for firefox, fucking it up for IE, and then trying to hack it to make it work in firefox again. For some reason, though, the thrill of publicly shaming someone in such a geeky way was sufficient motivation for me to blow through all of these previously uninteresting technologies.
Being a dick myself was only half the reason I posted it. In fact, I put a big disclaimer in my post that falsely stated I wasn't doing it just to prove that the fuckrag troll had nothing worthwhile to say. No...the real reason was the hope that lots of girls would message me asking how to install the script, since I posted no installation instructions.
It didn't quite work. A bunch of guys, and guys pretending to be girls, posted bullshit like "what a wonderful little script" and asked for instructions publicly. The reason they were full of shit is that my script was not wonderful: it was a hack job that used a wasteful, inaccurate, brute force but easy-to-code method, because when I spend 20 minutes learning a new language just to make a point that somebody is a dick, I don't spend another hour solving the edge cases. So...I pasted a couple of links that those idiots could have easily googled for just to make them stop talking at me. Then the guy who was being a dick--the one who I was targeting with this little plot--posted to thank me, saying he would find it useful. I rolled my eyes at patted myself on the back for at least trying a novel strategy.
A single girl did eventually message me, and it did turn into a connection like I'd hoped. She lives in Brazil.
As a side note: I later messaged a girl in Florida to compliment her on her profile pictures. She both misinterpreted my compliment as an insult and thought I was trying to hit on her. I'll be directing my energy back to real life for a while--been having much more success there, but that's another story, if I get to it. I actually wasn't going to even write this story, but at the last minute I decided that a tale of throwing code at interpersonal relations would be more interesting than me listening to There Is and recounting every first kiss with every girl I really liked. That was my first idea.
The moral of the story? Javascript is actually not that bad. Seriously. I wouldn't want to ever depend anything on it working correctly in a browser environment, but its not that bad. Besides, when I'm at parties with geeks, I always go with this line about how which language you choose isn't that important, phrased in a way intended to make me look smarter than anyone in the room who was just acting like a language fanboy. So I'm willing to cut the ol' js some slack.
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