*muffled cursing from the next room*

Let's say an average sexual dyad has 2 sets of 4 pointy joints and a (full) bed surface is 53'x 80' or 8 joints/29 square feet or a quarter joint per square foot. If the number of partners is doubled that's over half a joint per square foot.

If range of motion of any given limb is a foot and a half at the pointy joint, then eight joints to the power of 1.5 feet divided among 29 square feet is 22.627417 over 29 = 0.780255759 or less than one joint per foot of bedspace. Double the number of limbs and you get 16^1.5 = 64 & 64 over 29 = 2.20689655 or more than two joints per foot of bedspace and that is really bad odds for not getting an elbow to the head.

I think threesomes would be the most I am willing to risk, mathematically speaking.

*I was going to do the April Fool's Day post about how Xenoix and I had broken up, and put the 'details' under a cut-tag that only went to the words "Do you know what day it is?" Unfortunately I just don't feel like it. I feel kinda crappy, physically, like sinus-shoggoths are trying to invade my throat. What I wouldn't give for some nice homeopathic Elder Sign extract! . . . See? I just am not funny today, and I don't feel like failing continuously. Meh. :|

*So: in order to come up with some direction and feelings of continued utility and relevance, I've decided to go through old journals for records of my uncompleted goals. And knowing me there will be enough things that I've forgotten about to fill several pages. I'll then winnow them down according to whether they appeal to me currently, see what I've got left over, and post it up here to see if any themes emerge. Y'all might have to help with that bit, I totally won't be able to spot the obvious stuff. If you get the sense that I'm kind of down on myself at the moment, you'd be right. I had to explain the way my memory works to not one but two different co-workers today, and other people's pity is uncomfortable to me. I'm kind of glad that "I meant what I said, even though I may not remember it later" a convo you only have to have with people once.

*I was at the library the other day to find Women From Another Planet which apparently they don't have in any library in Texas (fail!). And when I was up in the psychology section for books on the autism spectrum, I picked up a mis-shelved copy of The Sociopath Next Door and read a bit. And it disturbed me. I'm not gonna lie. cluegirl says it's a fascinating read, and I believe her, but I'm not entirely sure that people understand sociopaths correctly. Because according to the most fundamental definition, I qualify. I don't feel shame or regret when I've hurt someone. I feel stupid and like a failure, because hurting people is bad for a system which ~hello, I live inside of~ and I hate making bad judgment calls that I will have to fix the repercussions of later so I try to be as nice as is reasonable and practical. I don't feel jealousy, or fear of mortality, or greed in any normal sense, and my expression of a lot of emotions is not what it is for other people. But just because I have fewer and more limited emotions doesn't mean that I want to destroy society or be a serial killer. I would have to also be under several delusions about my impact on the world and in a lot of chronic emotional pain for either of those to occur. I think it's possible that there's another invisible spectrum in human behavior, of the weight and importance of feelings. For some people emotions are this dominant, inexorable force. I have no idea what that's like, so my lack of affect must be just as freaky to them as their paradigm is to me and the sociopaths. :\

*When I was a teen, every day was Opposite Day. I'm an adult now. Can I have just one Apposite Day? That's all I'm asking for.

Hey, have I told you guys my "Alan Moore is living in quantum superposition as a fangirl" theory? No?

Recently I was reading this article on how scientists were trying to get a virus to exist in two quantum states simultaneously, and the difficulties doing it to larger organisms in the real world. To which I immediately scoffed, because there is an author/fangirl/chaos magician who does that all the time. He is Alan Moore, the author of Promethea, V for Vendetta, the Watchmen, and Lost Girls - a published femmeslash futurefic crossover/AU of the sexual adventures of Alice from Wonderland, Dorothy Gale, and Wendy Darling.

I hear that, statistically, it's pretty much just women who write slash, and that there's this perception that people who slash the characters from children's stories must be some sort of perverts. And yet many of the people who are supposed to subscribe to that theory would also have to be fans of perennially popular Moore. He seems to occupy a singularly multi-layered existence, much like that virus, because nobody even sees him for what he is. That passage in V for Vendetta where V is extemporaneously filking his life's story to the tune of Cabaret? Songfic, bb. Seriously.

Great. Big. Fangirl.

If you're wondering how is it that he can be in two places at once like that, be one thing and do another - well, he is a chaos magician. Messing with the normal order of the world is a spiritual tenet for more people than just the cracktastic slash fangirls on LiveJournal. ;) Love ya!

In other news, I have cyst pain+cramps again and my personal life is not doing me many favors. I need someone to write me a book, How to Comfort Distressed Humans: A GUIDEBOOK FOR THE CONFUSED VULCAN. Anybody up for the challenge? Or want to have coffee with me next Thursday at the Starbucks near my house?

From the pages of my day-planner, ( these are things that I have done this year. )

While I have issues (and tend to talk about them, often at length), I know that you have issues, too. Just because I don't point them out and say, "ooh, where did you get that shiny warped perspective?! you are so beautifully broken!!" does not mean that I don't see you. I see you; I see us.

( If you wonder why I consider you family when we have never met and have no visible thing in common, this is why. )

Thank you.

I saw Half Blood Prince again today, and GLEE for the 4th time. In my life I've seen Titanic 4 times, AKIRA 5, Moulin Rouge 6, and Romeo + Juliet 14 times, and Dune so many times the cassette tape wore out. Who else does this? Do you have any insight as to why we do it? Or is it purely the enjoyment factor of the familiar?

In other news, according to Xenoix, I've never talked about being in therapy . . . which I don't actually believe, because when do I not talk? But it's vaguely possible, and I'm pretty sure I've only mentioned it here in passing. Behind the cut tag will be a ( massive entry on my being a headcase and the first bit of how I got better. )

Yummy peanut butter cookies, YAY! I am done with baking them, also YAY! And in less than an hour I'm off to Austin to see Helix and possibly The Marquis de Josh and Nick and some of the Feri peeps, where we will study the NATURE OF OUR VERY SOULS. Or so I hope. Most of what 'magic' is, it seems to me, is just learning how your head works and getting a handle on the rules so you can program yourself to do all the complex shit you need to keep up with. And there's a lot in our world to keep up with.

I'm not sure how done I am with grieving, but I'm going to risk it. Deep meditation always brings things up, but just because the Rhoda thing is fresh doesn't mean it feels more immediate than the other emotional baggage I've got. I'm pretty sure that I felt my way through the worst reactions to her death while she was still alive.

It has been interesting to find out that my previously-acquired intrapersonal skills don't work like they should when I'm not a crazy person, but that's just life I suppose. Does this mean I need to chase down all the things I tried back in school, all the behavioral modelling I decided I couldn't use because I just didn't work like that? I didn't then, but maybe now I do. More stolen magic and mind-macros. I wonder what size my operating kernel is? heh. :)

I run so many programs, and I have things partitioned really crazily, but it does OK. Years of beta testing seem to work miracles. Now I only run CrazeOS when I have to, and most of my applications and drivers got exported over here. So many system resources, what will I do with them next?

NEW PLAN: WE ALL CHANGE OUR LAST NAME TO 'WHO' AND SOME OF US START GETTING DOCTORATES!

:D?

I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up from the Capraesque dream of our country being under new management. But it keeps being real.

Can't sleep. It happens sometimes, and I don't know why. I need to pick a fight soon, spar with someone, get this restlessness out from under my skin.

It's good to periodically return to the parts of yourself you've been avoiding. I've always had more problems than I knew how to deal with and since I can't live in the shabby, brokedown parts of my head without getting horrible, I avoid that part of myself and go live in the intellectual and spiritual and occasionally physical parts of myself. I hold back my emotions and avoid them, while researching ways that other people deal and coming up with experimental solutions to test out the next time I'm here. And I'm here again; every once in a while I go on a mission to the Cambodia of my internal world, the Somalia and Nicaragua of my messy emotional poverty.

There are resources here. There are things worth having in the starving, untravelled parts of myself, and these resources are desperate to be used. But I don't want to strip mine myself or treat this like America treats a third world country. There's got to be some form of game theory that can be used as a blueprint for self-respect. There's got to be behavioral mapping from the external world that can guide me along the twisting mud tracks and dusty camel trails in my head. One world has to reflect the other, or what's a world for?

When my problems got worse than I knew how to cover for, bad things happened to me because nobody knew how to correctly interpret me. I'd been lying too much for too long. Eventually I learned to stop covering most of it up, and let people who were trying to get close to me know what they were really in for. Here's how that happened:

My peers gave me hell, unwanted gifts that I accepted because I didn't know how to refuse. A lot of kids that grew up the same way are concerned with paying their peers back for that treatment, which is not unusual for freaks in public schools. But I don't want to pay them back. I want to give them what they paid for, and let the buyer beware. That's my nature. I'm fair like that.

I transubstantiated that pain into something functional and beautiful and new. I made Hell part of myself and used its fire to forge the raw materials of myself into whatever I am now. And I want to share my smithied self with the world so the next generation of hell-givers and hell-takers will come to the table with a better understanding of the possibilities being offered there. Anger shows you what's important to you. Pain makes you grow. It's fertilizer, and like fertilizer it's pretty shitty. But if my peers had been better people then I wouldn't be one now. Thanks to the Tiffanies and Dominiques and Alexes of the world. I would say I owe you one, but I don't. :)

Gonna try to sleep now.

Other people are even more of a chore today than I am, and that's rare. So instead of talking to other people (who aren't icky and foul-tempered), I'm going to talk to myself about ( all the things I've been saving up. ) You know you don't have to read this stuff, right? That you're real to me either way, and that nothing is expected of you? I've not got parts cut out for you to play, and I don't know what you want until you say so. You exist independently of the world and of me. You're you, and that gives me permission to be me. It's nice.