This blog covers time, plagiarism, family, truth, space, school, venom, charity, rant, geography, fremdsprache, verse, medicine, music, changa, quotes, people, le sed, drink, history, lies, prose, spielwort, theology, crumbs, sports, meta, oneirotics, robots, her, friends, shards, war
Travel back to 2017-12, 2017-04, 2018-12, 2018-03, 2018-02, 2018-11, 2018-08, 2019-02, 2019-05, 2019-12, 2017-06, 2020-12, 2020-02, 2019-04, 2020-01, 2019-01, 2018-10, 2018-01, 2020-10, 2018-09, 2021-01, 2019-03, 2020-09, 2019-06, 2018-04, 2019-11, 2017-07
A Preamble [for those who enjoy reading my garbage]
Over half a decade ago, I got higher than giraffe pussy and began implementing the terrible ideas gnawing their way out of the collective unconscious through my own brain, pattern by metacircular pattern; although the work is further from completion than it was before I began, I have been far from fearful in its publication, and I have probably wasted more keystrokes in futile promotion of my work than I ever spent on essays during my secondary education. If you wish to see what I have done, and possibly even to risk your own funds, time, and worst of all, estimations of technical competence at the fringes of mad science, there are only a few options before you:
The easy, modern, world-wide wonderful way, where you click here and find yourself rejected, redirected, encrypted, suspected, and acquitted, all while drowning in prose;
The less-shiny thread that you may pull to your heart's content, should usually deliver you an archive of the project's state at an arbitrary past point in time, although you are almost certain to find that it may contain secrets indispensible to futures forgetful;
The best one, left as an exercise to the intrepid, is to ask the author for a fresh copy of the originals;
The worst one, arguably trivial, is to roll your own!
In case you have chosen the second option, and do not rely blindly upon the benevolence of the rotten onion's various layers, you should compare checks of that archive, and its contents, with ones provided insecurely below; if you have any level of technical competence whatsoever, in the field of physical security, please consider considering, at your leisure, the various published algorithms for doing so, in particularly the ones designed, published, and recommended under public scrutiny, deadlines, and committee wisdom.
/tmp/airdrop/# sum leaflet/* leaflet.tar.gz 12345 7 leaflet/scalpl.asd 67890 F leaflet.tar.gz
A Brief History Of The Above
By now, you may wonder why I quite so aggressively refuse to charge any payment whatsoever for copies, licenses, or even the mere privilege of having your own property slung around the sketchy backwaters of the fintolkolypse by the very author of the above junk; perhaps, you wonder, while weeping silently and clenching jaws in anger, why I spend so much of my purgatory working on such a hopelessly dull programming challenge, when I can quite easily obtain its mainstream competitors for the nominal and worthleast fee of expressing interest in their online presence, and even obtain dirt-cheap professional tools for less than I lost on an exchange during days of questionable decisions; and if you're still reading these chunks of gunk, unk, you'll also want slightly more information than you can dig from the version control metadata found in a few of the above.
It all began a bit over seven years ago, when I realized how much Bitcoin could be earned by cautiously reducing noise in financial markets, with no more than the wise idiot's glance at the risks that must be held in return; having never played hot granaydoh with anything other than numbers, I rapidly prototyped tactics: first driving public interfaces of Web sites better left to their own neverending stories with my own limbs; subsequently, with the very same code that you can find in the archives. Foolishly blazing through cash otherwise destined to fund the education of my friendly dealers' unborn children, I soon found myself facing the terrible risk of drowning under investments in a startup that did not, nor should ever, exist, so I tossed a bridge on the dumpster fire, and began treating work as a game.
That covers the first three years.
How about a recess, Your Honor?
If you want the rest of the story, greater detail about the previous part, or even just have comments, dump them into this web server's logs by appending ?anything to the address that appears above.
This one's dedicated - with no regrets and only a drop of respect - to my fellow cadets, whatever kind of field we span.
Someday, I might fence in an area, and exercise some planning over what blooms. I doubt I'd care enough to call it a garden, but there'd be clear selection rules, and eventually, I'd have to put a sign up, warning the literate passersby which way the road goes:
- Here there be poppies
- If you render latex for opioids, please do it off my property.
- If you are misfortunate enough to get shot by a member of the Citizen's Highway Patrol, whether on or off duty, please hire a lawyer.
- If you can't afford to hire your own, please be nice to the one you get!
You don't even have to be that honest. They can usually tell.
"I've been trying to optimize my morning routine." I sip whatever it was - most likely, ethanol with a dash of poison - and impel across the table as loudly as is possible to send a silent thought, that sipping a drink and staring into space is a reasonable substitute for "YES I AM STILL LISTENING KEEP TALKING IF YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY". Who knew, maybe there'd be something said, by the end of that next exhalation. "You know, all that must happen between opening my eyes, and closing the door from without."
Now that we'd gotten that far, and I've gotten this far from then, it's about time to prune a loop and see whether le sed's got anything to say, se ipse. I know the metaphor doesn't quite compute, but that's part of the point: if the metaphor clicked right into place, there'd be a complete subgraph of indiscreet questions (such as - "Which place? Clicked how loud? and What did it truly mean?"), whereas a dangling metaphor is almost as flexible a nunchuck as a swinging participle. Relax, bruvnator: these are tools for thought, not bullets!
As I often do, I'll avoid those baggage-laden words which only serve mental course obstruction; were you there, you may recognize yourself in the autopsy, but I'll do my best to follow Taraza's last command, here summarized ad exsecutibus: "if you're captured... burn your own heads, shatter them completely. Take the necessary precautions.".
I'll skip the question of why the above was said to me, as opposed to any other of the many heads that listen, talk, and even walk; more interesting are the implications of that technique, where a daily routine is shaved down to essentials, yet - and here I point at some context, so do a favor and fire up some more content-addressable - for what purpose is this one ritual honed, whereas the day's bulk is treated as mere mothballs, necessary stinking fluff that fills the empty spaces whence the vital style flows?
In closing, a lone crumb for none but my own amusement:
"Sure! I know exactly what you mean. You want a morning routine as reflex-driven as the act of blinking itself. Where's that approach belong: strategy, tactics, ... ?"
This will not be a lucid post, yet not quite "S-o-C" either. The system must be laid out clearly, for any interested child to decipher with the assistance of a bored yet educational adult (or at least, adult-ascendant), yet they should not need the use of any tooling other than deft hands, and perhaps a jeweller's loupe (or one of those magnifying glasses from the olde dictionaires, the kind they just don't make anymore).
Who is the audience? As a writer on vacation from the stage, or an actor cut off from the scheduler's queue, I am not the one to answer that question. Perhaps you, Dear Reader, are a member of that illustrious category, or at least aware of its existence, identity, form, or functional; mine pleasure would be all encompassing should you inform me of its return value under the simplest fixed-point process, yet I try not to delude myself that truth can be so easily raped from the bowels of our shared simulator.
When is the now? You may glance upwards, recall your Catholic Consensus Clockology, and see that there are no more days left for this message to be broadcast from this window so fictitious as to elicit week-long street-orgies of public-drunkenness -- a grand time, indeed! Yet perhaps not the one appropriate for so clear a message, no, that's why the speaker is muffled, the meaning so shuffled, the rules bent and twisted prose so far that even before the first key stroked, hands knew to tag it "verse".