Chance discovery has led me to realize that the plant engineer has been "engineering" his own search engine changes by going into the company catalog and being a fucking retard with it. Sections with an entry as a part of the section named the section so that he can search for the section, rather than just coming to me, manning up, and saying, "hey man, I'd like to be able to search by section." So, now, when he wants me to create a click-through interface to the catalog, I have to make sure the self-referential entries don't get brought up. Which, while no big deal, is still something that shouldn't need to be done.
The wrong solution to a problem that, had he simply asked a question, would never have existed. Thanks plant engineer dude. You're awesome.
Thankfully, I hit the point where caring about my job was too difficult to contemplate early this week, so I'd rather spend the extra time making the work-around than spend that time doing something productive. And spend time bitching about it on top of it, for bonus points.
Hellz yeah, bonus points.
Stupid freakin' winter weather apparently is beating me down. I've been dreaming dreams and stupid things and now I've got these recurring characters from one of my old stories running around my head saying, "no it's like this, no it's like that, and man you gotta write this shit."
So, some weird combination of missing the motorcycle and these two idiots that demand to have their story told has created this new story in my head, and it's BEATING MY BRAIN with it's desire to get out.
So, I find myself writing. Like a madman. And creating in fits. The culmanitory scene depicting itself over and over to me. When I lie down to go to sleep, when I wake in the morning, when I doze on the couch, when I'm eating, when I'm doing anything. Constantly harassing me with its incessant need to be known.
I'll say this for them, the little devils are persistant. This is the fifth time in twenty plus years that they've badgered me for attention, but the first time they've been so damned demanding about it. Funny how the surrounding story of their tale has nearly disappeared over time, and now it's just them, their time, and their lives that appear important.
When characters begin to take on a life of their own, be scared. Be very, very scared.
This will either be the revelation of my writing brilliance, the revelation of my insanity, or the realization that I really shouldn't bother with this writing thing because I'm supposed to be a rawk gawd, not some stupid wordsmith.
Or maybe it's all just my brain rebelling against the supposed romance novels I've been reading, and insisting that real romance doesn't have to be sex every two pages with different partners.
Time will tell.
Mrs. NFB and I went pet store shopping over the weekend without the dogs along due to the cold so got to spend more time looking around at things. One place had a savannah monitor that was standing on a log in his cage. He was about two feet long, tail included, and standing tall and proud, high above his domain, as if to say, "I AM GOD HERE! YOU WILL WORSHIP ME!"
So, I say, "that's what I want. He's awesome. Look at him, all proud and majestic."
Mrs. NFB responds, "is he full grown?"
"No," I reply, "not even close."
"Then you aren't getting him."
"Come on, he could hold his own in a fight with the dogs!"
"No, look at those claws!"
"Hellz yeah, see what I mean!"
Then she grabbed me and dragged me out the store.
I showed her a picture of a full grown savannah monitor later. She was even less happy then.
She's all for the lizard thing, so long as they look cute when they get all puffed up instead of dangerous. Oh well, little by little.
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