Wednesday, September 21, 2005

The Diary

IpV6 can have a maximum of exactly 340282366920938463463374607431768211456 addresses. And I have 90 bucks left. Gandhi is waiting outside my window for me to finish posting, so we can go and play golf together.

The world is not a strange place. I am fairly sure that you have all read about how this world is all artificial, all fucked up etc - but it's not. Nothing is artificial. It's natural. Cars are natural. Artificial Intelligence is natural. My pen is natural - it all evolved from something natural; even if we don't consider our intelligence as natural, we are part of the universe and its evolution.

Money, money, money - and then more money. Money, in the form of coins, notes or assets is what most humans identify as the direct link to happiness. Although some have tried to spread the rumours that money isn't happiness, we all know it is.

A blog is some kind of diary. A public diary. Note that "normal" diaries aren't really personal either. If you had a "personal" diary, you should make sure the CIA, NSA, PTA or alcohol support group will never have access to it. You should also make sure that the diary is destroyed as soon as you die. That would be personal. But we write in the hope to be read, and if it's private stuff, we'll write in the hope that we're long dead when it's read. Which never happens.

The diary. The cute innocent girl living a happy life with her new husband falls on his diary - she reads all about him and her best friend - and wham! The diary... Used to fool the cunning private detective, leading him onto a wrong path - but of course, he's cunning, and he'll understand that the real diary was destroyed, and it was a suicide disguised into a murder. The diary, opening the minds of young children to the art of cryptography or the art of hiding things. The diary, the blog, money, the universe and IpV6. All of this sums up to: there's a goblin under my bed. How can I convince him/her to do the dishes while I'm sleeping?

I like Jazz now. The music is soft, beautiful, rythmed. It's like the performers are naturally producing sound frequencies that can soften up anything.

Riders on the storm

The thundering ring woke me. I dragged my body to the phone and picked it up. It was early morning - too early in the morning. With a blank voice, I answered. It was God. He wanted my recipe for chocolate cake. I gave it to Him, and was about to hang up when I thought - This is my chance! I took a deep breath and asked: "God, do you know how to make trading & profit and loss accounts?" God replied: "Sorry, I didn't study accounting." I said: "But, I thought you knew everything?" - to which the Almighty replied: "But I don't exist... so I don't know anything at all. And we're not even having this conversation anyway." I thought that was fair enough an answer, and hung up.

I was still half asleep in the shower, and conscience came back to me periodically while travelling to university.

A day like any other one. The dude on the bus tried to make me pay the fare (although I have a bus pass, which makes me elligible for free transport) but I cunningly showed him some of my management notes, which made him totally forget about making me pay.

My eyes barely open, I loaded my blog template and started working on it. I sold my soul to the devil for less than 200 bucks, and put up some google ads in here. I also deleted all my previous posts, because I felt like clicking a lot. After all, it's still impressive to use a mouse without a wire and see the pointer move accordingly.

I think wireless mice are alive. I first thought they had some kind of little mouths, and they were constantly calling out to the receivers: "He's moved me on the right! Two millimetres! Wait, he clicked just now! On the left - no, a little bit more!" but then I thought that if they kept shouting, I would've heard something at least. And that is how I concluded that the receivers actually had eyes, and those eyes were locked on the mice itself. I haven't figured out how they work in the dark though.

My compiler is giving me friendly error messages, and my operating system notifying me before crashing - "Awwww, there is a mistake on like 127, maybe you should try putting in a semicolon at the end." or - "I'm sorry, but I'm about to crash because I can't read sector 0xEAF8849E - that's where you keep your porn by the way."

My soul long sold to the devil is playing blackjack on a poker table, and my heart beating in my chest no more mine.


I miss you Marie.