This is boring and rambling and personal, but I wanted a record of it. So.
I decided to start knitting again. I’ve missed it, the alchemy of turning string into cloth, something strong and useful and beautiful. I’ve missed the feel of yarn sliding through my fingers, the textures and the feast of colors, falling into the steady rhythm as the stitches unfurl under my fingers with the click-click-click of the needles. I’ve had the pattern and the yarn picked out for ages: Miriam Felton’s Cleopatra wrap in a Sundara silk lace the hot, bright green of young leaves.
And then, after all of this wistful missing and planning finally built up enough to become action tonight, I could not find my HiyaHiya steel US 3s. I had 2.5s and 4s. I checked in my knitting drawer, and in all of my yarn bins, and then in all of the other craft spaces, and under the couch, and you get the idea.
Nothing. Part of the reason I stopped knitting, right before third year began, is because of this malignant perfectionism of mine. I’m not the only one who gets this way. I needed my sweaters to come out exactly right, so I would swatch and reswatch, and agonize, and generally make myself miserable if my sweaters didn’t fit perfectly.
So I could not find the needles that this project required, and I was making myself light-headed with anxiety over whether I should use a size too small or a size too big and okay I tend to knit tight but maybe it’ll be too compact on the 2.5s but maybe it’ll be too loose on the 4s and.
Then I remembered that I had packed this yarn back in December, thinking I was going to start the project on a trip. (This did not happen, obviously.) But the needles weren’t in my suitcase. Back to perseverating over whether to use another size! But wait, I had taken a satchel, too, hadn’t I? Yes I had. And the 3s were in the pocket.
TLDR: It turns out that retracing my steps to find a lost object actually worked. Now I get to start knitting again and not drive myself into a panic attack over it. I will count this as a victory.
Don’t drink and derive.
Gandhi has been historically the most aggressive character in Civilization due to an original bug in the first game that caused him to go all-out once he reaches democracy. They just kept the thing going ever since.
To further explain this bug, because I was chatting with mothmonarch about Civilization and other strategy games last night and I never got around to explaining this fully, but I love this story:
Gandhi’s AI in the original game had its aggression set to the absolute minimum (0 on a scale of 0 to 10, I believe, I may have this wrong but the basic idea I’m about to explain is accurate, as far as I can tell). Adopting democracy lowers an AI civ’s aggression by 2 points, so when someone who is fully peaceful loses two points of aggression, they should still be nice and polite, right?
Except this is an old DOS game, and so computer math is in place. What actually happened was that Gandhi’s aggression level ticked backwards two steps, from 0 to 255. On a scale of 0 to 10, Gandhi is now 255 points of pure nuclear rage.
And that’s the story as I recall it, but again I may have gotten some details wrong, so feel free to correct me! After that, as the original poster said, the devs loved the bug so much that they just kept it in as a running joke!
No, I’m still hung up on this.
If it got into the bowel, that’s some mixed gram negative/anaerobic shit. (Literally.) Penicillin won’t do squat. IM or subq or IP or wherever she stuck it even less so.
I guess maybe if it didn’t perforate the bowel, so it was just a penetrating wound infected by strep or even a MSSA (it’s been 20 years, maybe the decrease in antibiotic use has resulted in better susceptibility in staph species), then penicillin might work. But not a single non-IV dose.
PS. I hope Joel’s up to date on his tetanus booster.
I’m fine with fungus zombies, but using a single dose of penicillin to cure a gut wound gone septic is where you break my suspension of disbelief.
I have made some bad life choices to have brought me to the point where the fellow says “Let’s round at 0600 tomorrow” and my first thought is “That means I can sleep in until 0500!”
By which I mean, surgery has broken me.
(Guess who got up at 0330 today. 0500 looks real good from here.)
Augh executive function deficits.
(That’s it. That’s the post. That’s the reason I’ve been prompting myself to stop interneting and go. to. bed. for the past hour.
go to bed.
do the thing.
step 1) stop typing, step 2) close laptop, then 3) get up and 4) go to the bathroom to 5) brush teeth, etc etc, come on, this is easy.)
This is a petty post.
My mother is coming to visit tomorrow, and I have too much to do. She will expect me to be cheerful and positive, when I just want to be in a foul mood and get my work done, because I’m fine applying nose to grindstone, but I refuse to pretend to be goddamn chipper while doing so. If I don’t put on a suitably fawning show of happiness, she’ll throw a tearful tantrum and make it all about her own feelings, so that I can’t even feel rotten without feeling guilt for making her feel bad.
And at this point, I don’t even know where to draw the reasonable line between what emotions I’m allowed to have and express in what way.
So I’m just filled with a restless, snarling anxiety that makes me want to jump up and do the ten thousand things that need doing, and hide under the covers so I don’t have to face them for one more hour. I will lose two hours picking her up from airport, which makes my already tight schedule a frantic mess of conflicting demands.
And I don’t have time to do the fun, relaxing things that she’ll want to do, because she’s coming from a highly stressful emotional situation and will want to unwind, and I’ll just make her more miserable because I have no energy for cheerfulness, even if I did have the time for it.
I don’t want to deal with this. I am so wrenchingly, miserably tired and sad and overwhelmed, and I really, really dislike surgery beyond even what I was expecting.
(This is probably a depressive episode. Slapping a label on it helps sometimes and doesn’t help most of the time.)
(This too shall pass. I know that. I know it, even if I can’t feel it now.)