Random Updates and Such

Well, twenty-four hours after my gut had me praying for death, I was mostly back to normal. And after five days of absence, the mutt returned home. So there were no permanent repercussions from the events discussed in my last post.

My houseguests have rearranged damn near every room in the house. I barely recognize the place these days. Whatever.

I’m still trying to turn my Parker 45 into a reliable writing instrument. The last ink to go through it was a cartridge of black Quink. Every day or so, I had to pressurize it a little and use a damp paper towel to restart it. Since it ran out, I’ve rinsed it, soaked it, and rinsed it again. And again. Water pushed through comes out clean. But if left on a paper towel with water inside the feed, a blue spot with reddish brown edges will appear within half an hour. The blue is presumably my previous ink choice, but what the red/brown is baffles me. I plan to continue this process until there is no color on the paper towel. Then I’ll refill it and see if it behaves any better.

I seem to have a pretty serious problem with ants outside the house. Sure, I saw them all the time when I was mowing, but I figured it was just one of those nature things. Well, houseguest’s friend brought a puppy over to play, and some time between playtime and going home time, it got into a nest of the fuckers, and ended up with bites all over its genitalia. Because of the sprogs, I have to do something, but I can’t go all Delbert McClintock. Instead, I am limited to kid safe options. Make that option, singular. Diatomaceous earth. Supposedly, it works well, but takes perseverance, especially initially. Guess how I’ll be spending my next day off.

I’m working on a new female situation, but at the moment it’s firmly entrenched in “hurry up and wait” land.  Which seems to be the story of most of my life.

I spent a significant sum preparing my home for the houseguests. Hopefully I’ll pick up a good chunk of overtime before the “six months, no interest” promotion expires. That or the price of silver rebounds. The average I paid for my portfolio is roughly double the current spot price.  Good time to buy. I’m just unable to do so. If neither happens, I’m going to owe a horrendous amount in finance charges.

Best friend is tying the knot soon. Poor, dumb schmuck. I envy him. The last ring I put on a lady’s finger was hocked six months ago to pay an electric bill. Or so the rumor goes. Fucking bitch. But I still love her in spite of that, and everything else.

ExRoomie recently bought a new laptop. It’s running windoze ten. She got used to Ubuntu Linux after I converted her over a decade ago, but she has a project or class or something that supposedly requires it. She keeps asking me questions. I can’t help her. I haven’t used a version since XP, not including the coughpiratecough version of 8.1 that I put on my laptop for the sole purpose of being able to update my GPS.

I will try to make it talk to the PC that has the printer attached to it. If I fail, she’ll just have to buy a WiFi enabled one that works for both operating systems. A multi-function inkjet, which is exactly what she has now, costs maybe fifty federal reserve notes. She can afford it.

They’ve changed the schedule for my machine at work. Now, I spend all but the last two hours of my shift making chemical adds and performing periodic and preventative maintenance. It’s much more physical, but I’m not dependent on others for my breaks. And best of all, everybody leaves me the fuck alone. I’ll put their ass to work, and I mean real work, not just watching the parts go around in circles and change colors.

Some people need a good killing. I’m not going to elaborate.

And that’s about it for today’s episode.

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A Horrible Day

Today was probably the second worst day in my life.

On the way home from work, I stopped by a friend’s house to drop off some leftover decorating stuff that ExRoomie didn’t want, and neither did I. She wasn’t awake yet, so I left it near her back door. Her two ankle biter puppies followed me up the driveway when I left. I figured they would turn around and go back when I got to the road, so I didn’t give them any thought beyond making sure I didn’t run over them.

An hour later, she emailed me. One was missing. She walked up and down the road. She didn’t see it laying in the ditch or on the road, and it didn’t respond to her calls. We assume someone picked it up. Her spawn is heartbroken. I guess I should’ve taken them back down the driveway and tossed them inside the house or something.

My stomach had been cramping some all night, but I didn’t give it much thought until I got home. And it siezed up to the point that I was praying for death. I spent hours in the most excruciating pain that I have ever experienced, covered in sweat, tears, and God knows what else, alternately dry heaving my guts out and trying to get some movement through the usual exit.

Several times, I’d decided that a trip to the local Emergency Department was the correct course of action. But I couldn’t have safely driven the ten miles had my life depended on it. And I couldn’t speak coherently enough to summon EMS.

Probably five hours later, after two enemas, several failed attempts at various oral medications, and about fifteen minutes of semi-productive heaving, the pain subsided enough for the exhaustion to take over. I slept the remaining two hours before time to go to work.

I awoke extremely weak, and although the cramping was still making its presence felt, at least I could stand upright. I decided to try to work my shift, praying that it’s an easy one. And here I am.

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I have a problem. I’m a deviant. A pervert. Way beyond anything that would simply be considered a freak of nature. Why? Because I enjoy sex and I have a significant appetite for it.

One of my exes gave me a self help book on sexual addiction on her way out the door.

My own dear sister regularly tells me that I think with my dick.

My most recent long term romantic partner often joked about her pussy being the only thing about her that I was interested in. Mostly after we went from coitus 5-8 times per week to only 2-3 times per month, and I had expressed my disappointment in the new frequency. But everyone knows that there’s some truth in every joke.

Even I can tell that I’m a very different (and much better) person when I’m regularly drained than I am when I’m suffering a drought.

Look at the shit that I do in an effort to attract and keep a woman. The time and money that I invest. The stress, drama, and sometimes even mild abuse that I willingly endure. All in search of the Holy Grail:  A woman’s attention, love, and the ultimate physical expression thereof.

I’ve been doing some soul searching. Maybe all I do care about is getting some. But I can’t control how I feel, only what I do. Maybe there’s a lust demon, and I’m possessed. I mean, the day I lose interest in sex is the day I want to die. So I guess I am what I’ve been labeled.

My only choice is to live with it until I wake up in hell. 

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Parker 45

Several months ago, I acquired a Parker 45 fountain pen from one of my favorite people on the planet. Since then, it’s been a love/hate relationship.

I love the pen. It’s beautiful and elegant in its simplicity of style. It’s not garish or gauche. It’s not overstated. Instead, it’s a classic, in the truest definition of the term.

But I can’t get it to run reliably to save my life. It was difficult to get to flow initially, but once I finally got it going, it seemed fine. But I didn’t use it regularly after the first week or two. I deemed it too nice to bring to work, so I left it on my desk while putting my new, cheap Chinese pens through their paces.

When I picked it up again a couple weeks later, it had dried up. I cleaned it thoroughly, and gave it time to dry. Then I repeated the arduous process of inking it. It worked for the session, so I presumed success, and promised not to neglect it again.

The next day it was dry. So much for my thorough cleaning fixing it. Since then, I’ve soaked it, rinsed it, and cleaned it every way I can image. The result remains the same. Within hours, the nib is dry, and I have to force ink through the converter to get it going again.

Eventually, I will make it work. If I live long enough.

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House Update

I haven’t written about my still-kinda-new-to-me house in a while. I’ve been extra busy working on it the last few weeks, though. I’m very close to ready to post pictures, but not quite there yet.

The person I criticized here seems to have found a few functioning cells in the part of their brain where good decisions are made, and has corrected their recto-cranial inversion. Consequently, if all goes as planned, in a few days I will have house guests coming to stay for a while. Said house guests include pre-teen children, so sharp, pointy objects, things that go boom, and substances that could cause significant harm if ingested had to be relocated to secure storage. (Before you ask, no, B is NOT moving in with me.)

So, in the last two weeks or so, I’ve relocated my storage building from the old house to the new one, leveled it, and filled it to the rafters. I’ve put down three and a half tons of topsoil to fill holes and level uneven areas in the yard. I also put down border stones, landscape fabric (tip: Preen is excellent, Weed Block is crap) and six tons of pea gravel to make the front walkway and the parking area cleaner. My primary motivation was to decrease the chances that mud will be tracked in when it rains. You know, since I haven’t had time to dig those French drains yet, and it does get wet when there is copious rain.

I also hung and wired a television antenna, to supplement Amazon Prime video for keeping the rugrats and their progenitor entertained.

Inside, I have consolidated my office and gun room, much as it would have been had the original plans in place when I purchased the home actually come to pass. I also transformed the crap storage area into a common office and child play area. I think I located all the guns that I had stashed everywhere, and either moved them into the main safe or added a locking box and left each where it was.

The most labor intensive single indoor project was the installation of locks on the kitchen and bathroom cabinet doors. It’s my own fault, really. I didn’t want anything permanent that couldn’t easily be deactivated. Also, I didn’t want anything tacky or unreliable. Which eliminated pretty much everything that wally world sells.

I decided on Tot Loks, a magnetic locking system that almost looks factory when installed properly, and can easily be disabled. They also require a bit more work to install than “line it up, screw in two screws, and call it done”. The finished product was well worth the effort. And nobody is getting in without ripping the door off. I highly recommend these for anyone with meddlesome spawn and competence with a drill and depth gauge. As with most child locks, they only work with drawers that the inside part of the front is also the front of the drawer itself, as opposed to being a full box with a thin fascia board attached purely for cosmetic purposes. Like most cheap cabinets. Especially those installed in uber cheap mobile homes such as mine.

All that remains is to put together the cheap bookcase and computer station that I ordered to complete the common office area. Then clean.

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BB&T bank is notoriously anti-gun. They were the first in the area that I saw to post their branches against legal carry. In the address change package that I got after officially clearing my old house, there was a $100 bribe from them. Open an account, meet at least one of a list of requirements ($500 per month of direct deposits was my choice), and after 90 days, free money.

Well, I’m not one to turn down a corporate bribe, so I opened an account online. The system said that the account was opened successfully, as did the welcome letter that I received about a week later. But on the same day that I got the welcome letter, I found myself locked out of my account. I called, and they said that the account was blocked.

My direct deposit had already started, so both my initial deposit and the first paycheck percentage were inaccessible. They said something about not being able to verify something, and that I’d have to go in to a branch to straighten it out. They couldn’t tell me what documentation I would need to bring, and I really didn’t want to make two trips to a fucking victim disarmament zone to find out. 

I hadn’t intended to keep the account active much longer than it was going to take to get the promotional cash anyway. And my first instinct was to close the account and tell them to fuck off. But no. I’m going to cost them money. But now it’s personal. Not only are they stupid when it comes to guns, but they are costing me time, sleep, and gas money. They’re going to pay.

So, I got my most recent electric, water, and internet bills, my car registration, my driver’s license with my new address on it, my passport, and my birth certificate, hoping that some combination of those items would be sufficient. Then I stuck my pistol in my pocket (fuck ’em) and set out to make sure I got my hundred dollars.

Dude got on the phone with corporate. They asked all kinds of questions about overseas travel, previous addresses, and all sorts of shit. Since when do banks know if you travel internationally if you don’t make any purchases while outside the country?

They seemed satisfied with my answers, and took copies of my license and my passport. They assured me that the account would be unblocked and usable within 48 hours. I went back home and went to bed.

I was able to log in two days later, as promised. It’s been over a week since my visit, and the account remains accessible. Now I get to wait the allotted 75-90 days, and see if I get my payoff. As soon as I do, I’m closing the account. In the mean time, I might leave a dollar in there.

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What A Dumbass

I’ve been converting the lighting in my home to LED recently, ridding myself of the accursed CFL poison that was in most of the fixtures when I took up residency. I think I have eradicated all the evil, except for one floor lamp that is still wrapped up and in a corner somewhere.

Four of those that were replaced were outside flood lights. Key word there, flood. I acquired replacements from multiple sources. One pair was the correct 90W replacement flood lights. The second was, you guessed it, spot light bulbs. All I saw was PAR 38, 100W replacement, outdoor, and daylight in the description. The only real difference is the angle of the beam, but it’s a significant difference. Those bulbs aren’t cheap, so I will just live with it. For the next twenty-two years – assuming that the life expectancy on the box is accurate.

What a fucking dumbass!

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