Scrame

And actually composed a damn response.

[deleted some bitchy whiny bullshit about how much work it all is.]

[still catching up. yes I know I suck.]

[long weekend soon. it may only get worse.]

[This is a series of backfills from the last weekend where I was pretty much away from computers.]

I made a switch to google voice recently. Not for the complete service, just for the voicemail forwarding and its already been indispensible, but humorous. Throughout the weekend, I actually was out in my hometown which still has spotty cell coverage at best. Typically, I never check my voice mail, but I just call or SMS people back directly. Google voice was handy because i was getting SMS transcriptions of the actual message, even when I didn’t get the call.

However, transcription is not a perfect art, yet. The results can be entertaining. I just received the following from an indian restaurant:

I’ve got your auto. From are eat 2040. Please give me a call before I start making your order. Thank you. My number is 6 political 4 and 53451028. Phone Number (415) 245-1028. Thank you.

My dad saw the service and was very hopeful, he has been dreaming of a good Speech-To-Text system for years, so he doesn’t have to learn how to type.

I would rather play typing of the dead.

I was actually going to try to do some tech thing, or follow up on a writing project. Instead, my ego took a massive blow by finding out I had apparently numbered my blogs wrong or something.

I won’t say that I actually didn’t do something, but I am surprised that I didn’t at least backfill some lame post about it. If I weren’t trying to do that I woulddn’t have so many damn posts just called “backfill”.

As it is. I am caught up with all numbers and measures of accounting as of this second.

The prior is just the pain of pedantry.

The Irony is that for the last week or so (until yesterday) I was actually banking stories. I wrote an extra one, and was trying to keep a bit of a buffer so I wouldn’t fall behind. The idea to just see what wday of the year it is had sat at the back of my head for a while, but I finally just did it.

I was actually a few days behind!

So much for fucking banking it!

So much for motherfucking new years resolutions!

I was despondent. Unreachable. I spent my weekends volutarily locked in a crawlspace weeping over the horrible things I had seen in the world: the numbers, the days of the year, the insufferable agony of sheer fucking existence.

Then I saw a light in the tunnel: “Pad it!” the voice said to me! No one reads this, if they do, they probably don’t give a shit what cardinal day of the year it is.”

That gave me pause.

So I started padding.