The Illusionist

It's early in the morning. 4:33 again.

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First round of the presentation went really well. Basically we knew going in that what they would want next is a level of detail more, and that was exactly the response that we got, but the overall response to the rearchitecture proposal was totally positive. That feels good going in, because it's a whopping change and it's gonna take some serious time to do, but it looks like it's more of a "how do we get there" conversation rather than a "should we even do this" one.

Pretty much the rest of today and the first week in January will involve me doing Visio diagrams and PowerPoint presentations clarifying the stuff for the marketing team and providing a big, fat, juicy carrot to dangle to entice them into being patient. That and a few meetings to prioritize and plan a high-level process map so that our PM can play games with Project.

It's a good place to end the year.

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Interesting comparison to last year's version.

Making a comparison of what my mental space was at this time last year compared to this year, and it's pretty obvious that even though I was in the Gulag, I was more clear-headed and happier. I'm chalking that up to two things:
1.) I knew that I was heading toward the end of my tenancy at the Company of Yellow and Green
2.) I was getting regular intense exercise.

Number two is probably the biggest contributor.

There's some other stuff: I was in my own apartment space that was actually pretty decent, which is such a major change from the Big Broken Box™ that it's night-and-day, and it has to be contributory. But I'm still laying odds that the regular intense exercise was the single biggest contributor.

And no my little fluffqueen, that is no brilliant revelation. It is merely for me to add more fuel to the motivation fire.

History in the mucking.

Ask me 4 questions. Any 4 no matter how personal, private or random.
I must answer them honestly & answer them all.

In return you must post this message in your own journal & you must answer the questions that are
asked to you.

Booby prize

Rob, age 43, has dedicated his/her life to helping others, getting strength
and power from this and earning love and respect from those Rob has helped.
Originally from Smugpuppi, Utah, Rob now lives in Minneapolis to be near several
attractive women and holds a job as a vegetarian zombie. Rob is single and has
no children. He's amazingly good in bed.

As a child, Rob never felt loved
by his/her father figure, who was somehow inaccessible (workaholic or
alcoholic). Rob connected easily with his/her mother, seeing being a helper as a
way to fit in to the family structure and earn love from the father. Combine
this with a more recent loss or disappearance of a loved one, and you get an
overwhelming urge to help people, which is an attempt to calm an inner fear of
being unloved. Rob's flaw is that the motivation is not always pure and he/she
ignores personal needs, putting the good of others above his/her own welfare. He
wants to fight crime and make the world safe for justice. And get laid.

http://www.characterpro.com/devcenter/createachar.html

Slow day in LJ-land.

Doing some re-reading of old entries.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/magicmarmot/484681.html

http://www.livejournal.com/users/magicmarmot/497257.html#cutid1

And some google poetry:

Love, gently like simple chair. If you extend the wings which as a butterfly is so not easily assignable, than the sky of night and in heady the meat of the desire with all drinking as dark as him umgibt, and we dream.

If I think of you, I feel the discovery itself which is however for your note, longing, hesitatnt, because I do not think that you believe in the same desire of me as me for you.

Jesus PH Christ on a rubber crotch.

I left work 15 minutes early. Normal 30 minute commute.

Today: 75 minutes.

ass fucking hole fucking idiot fucking drivers. Yeah, okay, you put off your holiday shopping until the last possible minute-- that doesn't give you free license to be a fucking shit-hat. Stop signs are still stop signs. Turn lanes are still turn lanes. If some asshat has driven into the intersection and is blocking traffic, it doesn't help when you do the same and then lay on your fucking horn.

Fucking fuck.

Well, shit.

Waiting for Mom. She doesn't show up. I get a call.

She's coming tomorrow afternoon instead.

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Holy crap, do I feel sick.

I think I might have eaten some bad turkey.