I'm So Scrabulous!

I've been thoroughly addicted to the Scrabble facebook application: Scrabulous. It's an amazingly efficient time killer at work. I've been running long applications and databasing, and I play scrabble in the off times.

Add the application.

That is all.

Too Many Ninja!

Dusk approaches rapidly
And I hear the zealous cries.
I sense footsteps in the night,
Metal flashes through the sky!

I can recall the last attack,
And my mind, you still torment.
But my feet refuse to move,
They're stuck in this damn cement.

Here you attack! Leaping high!
Your shuriken coming fast!
But you've forgotten one thing:
My blade skill is unsurpassed!

With nary five different swings,
I strike down any attack!
Another comes from the rear!
With my sword, I beat him back!

The body count grows higher,
More ninjas have met their doom,
And more and more they swarm me!
Help! I'm running out of room!

But still I fight to survive!
And it's slowly shifting tides!
I feel like I might live on!
Until they come from both sides.

I cannot move quick enough,
To defend both back and face.
But I have revenge in store
For ninjas, once I hit space.

Dedicated to the Samurai, may the gods forgive me, as my ineptitude has cost them many deaths.

Engineers: As Much Imagination as a Lump of Wet Spinach

One of the perks [is it really a perk? Is it really?] of being in the school of engineering [groan] is the fact that I get a lot of emails about internships, job openings, etc. However, some of them...

An email came in this morning from some student group that's sponsoring a "Chevron Refinery Tour!!!" It's your standard email about going to some Chevron plant, but this sentence, near the middle of the email, caught my eye: "Chevron specifically asked for Chemical and Mechanical Engineers who are interested in the refining industry."

And all I could think to myself was "Who the FUCK would honestly be interested in working in the refining industry?"

Which brings me to another point: engineers have the worst types of imagination. I purposely didn't euphemize it either. It's not a different kind of imagination, it's the worst kind of imagination. Engineers create, but never out of the box. They're so confined to thinking inside the box that they end up working at places like Chevron... refining oil.

Which is truly my quarrel with South Campus in general. Granted, if we stick to the science-related fiends we're going to have a well-paying job in the near future [with the possible exception of Math majors] because [almost] everything we're learning has some benefit to mankind, but if we confine ourselves to only being involved with South Campus, it'll destroy our other half.

Thank god for LCC.

Sometimes, I Really Am Different

It struck me hard, although not unexpected, today that maybe I am, after all, slightly different than most other people. And I mean in a mental sense. We'll leave the drastically-skinny-yet-gifted-with-an-enormous-head to some other time.

I'm assuming normal peoples' thought process goes something like this (while waking up in the morning):

*sees self in mirror* 'Oh man, my hair is so messed up... and I'm getting scruffy. Guess it's time to shave. Maybe I'll get a haircut later. Egh for now I'll just shower [or, if they're a night time shower-er, they'll just rinse their hair and wash their face] and put something in it... good enough for now'

OR, it might go something like this:

*sees self in mirror, pauses for a few moments* 'fuck it.'

And then they would go about their normal life, whatever that may be. Mine, however, is somewhat different:

*sees self in mirror* 'Oh man, my hair is so messed up... and I'm getting scruffy. *beat* Damn, this kind of gives me that "I don't care, I'm a badass," look. I look good with this jacket on. I should always look like this. My girl would love this. Girls like scruffy, right? It gives me a "rough" look that I'm sure J would want to tame. *beat* Yeah, girls like that. Matthey McConaughey is like that. He's pretty cool. I wonder if he ever found his shirt. I wish I would've brought more shirts home with me. I brought a lot of jackets and sweaters, but not enough shirts. Damn I look good in this jacket."

And the cycle continues. Stream of consciousness, here I come!

Let's Try Something Different

Before anything: facebook now officially scares me. If it weren't for me having such boring times at work, I would probably never update again.

Also, I hate it when one of my coworkers farts while in the testing lab. Honestly, this isn't just an excuse to be immature and type out the word "fart." It wouldn't be too bad except for the fact that there is no circulation of air going through there, so everything lingers. Eugh. But back to real matters.

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California (or some part of it, probably the CHP) has recently released anti-drunk driving PSAs which warn drivers that police officers are CRACKING DOWN on drunk driving. If you're above the limit, they WILL find you. It's remarkably similar to the seat-belt violation PSAs that circulated earlier. I'm all for stopping drunk driving, but there's one thing that I noticed after seeing it a few times: all of the drivers are male.

I'm no statistic expert, so I decided that instead of fabricating the facts, I should look them up. I found it hard to believe that all drunk drivers are male. Apparently, of the fatal car crashes that occur, men are above the limit ~35% of the time, and women are above the limit ~21% of the time (I wasn't able to find stats on non-fatal crashes, but thank you MADD for the stats I could find). Although men seem to drink and drive more, I wouldn't exactly say it was a sweeping majority. So why the exclusively male-themed PSA?

I would evoke the cry of sexism, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. I'm just wondering why a lot of PSAs are like this. I've noticed that the abstinence/rape ones are very much anti-male, too. While, statistically speaking, most rape is man raping woman, let's not forget that the other way around does happen. I tried searching for the numbers on male rape percentage, but every single statistic had such a huge range of values that they were almost useless. Every single website stated that although they presented these numbers, experts believed that such statistics "vastly under-represent the actual number of men who are raped each year (source)." I personally know more men who have been raped by women than women who have been raped by men, and none of the men have reported the incident to the police. You could argue that the female friends I know have just not told me and I shouldn't be so bias, but thanks to the macho-image society places on males, under-reporting of rape is much higher than that of women (see same source as above).

So what's the deal with all the anti-men PSAs? It's not exactly helping the stereotypical image that men you randomly meet are untrustworthy and dangerous.

Any opinions?

The Man Behind the Nerd

I've always been a big fan Dilbert. I find it hilarious, especially now that I have/do work in a cubicle, pretend to do work, and feel the looming dread of any sort of superior passing by my opening. I call it an opening because a door would imply that I had the option of closing it if I wanted privacy. Not that it matters, as most of my bosses can see over the walls anyway. But save the cubicle rant for another day! Huzzah!

As I've said, I've always enjoyed Dilbert, but I've never expressed any interest in the man behind it. Maybe it's because I was raised on Calvin and Hobbes and Bill Watterson is as much of a recluse as you can get--I just assumed all other comics were likewise.

That's when I discovered Scott Adams' Blog. I suddenly have even more of an appreciation for the strip because now I feel I know the man behind it a bit more. And better yet, I fully appreciate his kind of humour. It makes me want to go out and read the books that he's written, not only his comic strips.

This is also the first time I've ever posted twice in one day. INSANE! If only I had more readers.

Tales from the Break Room, ep 1

When I first came in this morning, I saw a donut box on the table of the break room. This isn't that strange of an occurrence--many times do employees leave boxes of such treats in the break room for their coworkers, leading to much office lovin' that'll be felt more frequently than other offices. Usually I don't indulge in such items, as I'm only a temp worker, and since I'll be gone in less than two weeks, I figure I should let the locals be chummy with the fellow locals. There was, however, something different about this box.

My curiosity got the better of me. I grabbed a water bottle from the drink fridges and used it to open the lid, making sure not to leave any compromising fingerprints in the sugary glaze that coated the symbolic pink box that usually always indicated "donuts." It was then that I saw it. It was an oasis of a morning treat surrounded by the sands of sugar. It stood tall, proud, above the lower products of the bakery. Once I saw it I knew it was meant to be: just me and my blueberry muffin.

My eyes darted around quickly. My back hunched over the box as if to hide it from view. It was mine. The coworker that had been standing in the break room earlier was gone. Time to make a move! In one quick sweep of the hand I grabbed two napkins and the muffin, and quickly snapped the lid of the box down. Moving just as quickly I maneuvered into my cubicle and oh so tenderly placed my treasure down upon my desk.

I froze. I was missing something. My eyes scanned my desk until they came to a stop on an empty ceramic mug sitting comfortably on a stack of post-its that serve as its make-shift mat. I was missing coffee! I glanced towards my office door. No! It was too late! If I leave now, I risk someone else coming and stealing my precious. I would have to make due with the water I picked up earlier.

I broke off the first piece and put it in my mouth...

... and promptly spat it out. It was the worst goddamn muffin I had ever tasted. In my rage I threw it into the trash and went into the kitchen to grab some fruit. It comes in on the Monday of each week. At least they hadn’t eaten all the goddamn grapes.

Exactly Like a Dream

It's strange, losing full control. And I mean complete control. You can't do anything to go faster, to stop, to change direction. At the whim of whatever forces are tearing at you. You don't get scared, you don't freak out, but you try so hard to desperately regain even a shred of what you had but a few seconds ago. All your struggling is to no avail.

And then, a few seconds later, it's over. You have control over what's left--though it isn't much. The gravity of the situation doesn't settle in until your adrenaline (if you could call it that) wears off. It's only then that you're glad you got out in one piece.

Now for the aftermath.