After About a Decade...

I have gotten a short haircut. I'm sorry, Internet. I know you preferred me trappish and such, but it had to be done. Let's hope people take me more seriously at job interviews.
...My mother actually cried. She said I look like my father. Like an adult.
I was lying about that double-length update.
I'm still busy.

Curious Little Fellow.

This curious orange fellow greeted me on my way back from the Gym, just prior to the rain. I happened to have my camera on me, and he seemed worth it.

I'd write more, but I'm really not feeling it for some reason.

Expect a double-lengthy update sometime soon, instead.

Amputations, Afterglow, and Alexander.

Last night, around 10:00, I'd gotten a call from my grandmother, on my mother's side. I guess I'll take a bit of time to talk about her: Foreign Relations with the extended rings of the Harmeyer family tree are always a bit awkward, as my both my grandmothers are named Linda. Furthermore, every male on my mother's side, the "Shannon" side of the family, is named "Charles", with the exception of a few dead people, and one Charles who goes by "Chuck" instead. The family-tree is essentially split into the "Stoner, Hoarder, and Dysfunctional Family" side and the "Insanely Biblical, but Extraordinarily Divided and Dramatic" side.

The "Insanely Biblical, but Extraordinarily Divided and Dramatic" Shannon side is the Linda I'm going to be speaking about.

She's an odd person. She's prone to these outlandish claims, often vividly painted by my father, ranging from Elvis Sightings to Alien Encounters and visits from Sasquatches (Though my Father jokily calls them Samsquanches in homage to his beloved Trailer Park Boys.)

Speckling her pallet most frequently are Conversations with God, visits to Heaven where she reunites with Dead people in "New Jerusalem", and a few other things of a similar vein.

I take these things with a grain of salt, but every now and then, they bestow upon her an uncanny and almost foresight-like correctness with predicting things, so I do not entirely doubt them either.

Once, a very tempting employment offer was made to my mother, though by a rather haphazard and busy Doctor, who wound up drawing the employment offer out over a month with no contact or explanation. My mother recieved a similar offer from a very corporate and far-away place and considered going there instead with the notion that the Doctor who'd offered her employment had simply fallen-through. My grandmother suddenly called and asserted, "I have spoken to God, and he has told me this is not only the correct job for you, but that the Doctor will indeed pull through. Simply give him time. He is busy."

The man called later and apologized before hiring my mother the day before her deadline for work, saying he was extraordinarily backlogged. He is now paying for her education to further her expertise in his company, and my mother enjoys working for him. Uncanny. Just a bit odd.

All the same, there was a time where she had said she'd had a vision where God had appeared before her as a titanic White Drill. Yes, yes, I know. Spiral Power. We evolved, and are no longer the person we were moments before. Gattai. She said she grasped the drill, and it plowed through her kitchen, and that this was her vision of her own death. That God was going to take her away. She promptly closed her bank account, began dividing her possessions, and sinking into this morbid fascination with dying. When she realized she had missed the date she set, she said that the White Drill was simply a "Familiar Spirit" and that it had mislead her.

Her uncanny predictions are speckled with these moments that really make her look like an idiot, though when I think about it, I think she's probably where I get my natural bend toward some of the things that I do.

She was a trouble woman. She was not a good parent, and was a product of Incest, which made her very hard to document on my Family Tree projects and such, when I was in the third grade.

She did the best job as a parent that she could though, and I think her memory paints her as a better parent than she was. She occasionally has these moments where she'll argue with my mother about whether or not she put my mother up for adoption repeatedly, or whether or not they had food or clothes, things my mother vividly recalls being without.

I don't know. She's a very hit-and-miss woman. Brilliant in some ways, worthy of ridicule in others. A martyr in the way she was prepared to give all, but selfish when I hear accounts of her forgoing my mother's food to buy cigarettes.

She's always been in subpar health, but prone to fits of hypochondria as well, where she would paint herself up to be on a deathbed, and then be fine, smoking cigarettes over glasses of cola. Nevertheless, a recent call from the doctor asserted us that, with her reclusive lifestyle and her poor diet, her legs have begun to atrophy, and they need amputation, as the circulation has largely stopped altogether.

She called not a week before telling us that, "The spirits of Death were abound her, and that we must pray for her wellness". Uncanny.

She has a very positive outlook on it, all the same, saying: "There is nothing I can do to breed life back into my legs. I can simply part with them, or brood over it."
That is one of the strongest things I've seen someone say.
I worry, though, because she also said, "Perhaps when God sees how readily I reject my legs, he will heal my other ailments."

I just don't know. I'm worried for her. The people she lives around are manipulative and unsuccessful. I don't know what to do. I can feel that the shark-pool of her immediate family is going to leech her for all they may. I want to protect her somehow.

I should call her.

My entire body hurts - I'm basking in the afterglow of that absurd workout yesterday. My Abs ache. My arms ache. My chest aches. My shoulders ache. My legs are suspiciously okay. I could probably fix that if I wanted to.

Finally, while cooking stuffed peppers, which you may see above, I was listening to Alexander Rybak, and his performance, "Fairytale". It's very catchy, and I can't help but sing it below my breath as I do the laundry.

The peppers are Poblano, and stuffed with Monterey Jack, Rice, and a spoonful of Salsa. Simply open them on one side, keeping the stem, rinse them of seeds. Pack the condiments in, with the cheese on top of everything, and pop it on a grill until the bottom blackens. When the bottom blackens and the cheese has melted, take it off, slice it, and serve it up. Filling, tangy, spicy.

Don't touch your face after removing the peppers' seeds until you're thoroughly certain you've taken every precaution to remove the natural oils from the Poblano off your hands. While it's a mild pepper, oil from any chili touching any delicate place on your face will be as pleasant as a kick to the groin.

Welcome to Debt, Population: Me.

I could probably start with the picture. I might start with the picture. The picture has the most pertinence to the title. I'm indebted. And it's all that damned Nyabi's fault.

...Not really, Nyabi's pretty swell.

Regardless, a ways back, it would seem that Konpaku had got it in her head to mail a few close people gifts, and I happened to make the list - she pilfered my Address from Nyabi's cattish little head, and this delightful mooncake was sent without any explanation, along with a delightful painted-glass souvenir. I flipped my lid because I don't have Konpaku's address, which sets me at a perpetual deficit.

Yes - I know it's stupid to think like that.

I split it amongst my family, and we chewed it over tea.
I've secretly begun putting together a package for Youmu, but after remailing Hjalmar's package for a steep bill of fifty dollars for six-day delivery, I'm a bit nervous about how hard it'll suplex my wallet.

I'll see what I can do.

I tour my workplace on Monday.
I'll be working the Prepared Foods section at an Organic Foods outlet, dishing up sauteed vegetables like a boss. Not quite short-order cook, but not quite poofy-hat. I'll be a Chef. Very Mystia.

I've finally salvaged my sleeping schedule.
I started the day like a Fucking Train, blaring Equius Zahhak's "Chaotic Strength" as I went to the Gym, cooked Breakfast, jogged to the place I'll be working, put-out and picked-up the mail, hauled furniture, and just otherwise got shit done.

I'm just feeling pretty all around awesome.

Feeling pretty accomplished.

They day was pregnant with that sense of, "Do something. Do something."
I feel like I've obliged.

A Recipe for Balsamic Chicken, and my Pre-Bed Thoughts.

Season four chicken-breasts with salt and pepper, then lightly dredge them in flour. Pat off any excess flour with a paper-towel. Heat two tablespoons of Olive Oil in a skillet, add one tablespoon of butter, and stir until it melts. Place the chicken-breasts in, and saute them for about seven minutes, flipping them once. Each side should be lightly golden.

Deglaze (i.e. scrape with a spatula) the bottom of the pan, but don't empty it.

Add one chopped shallot and saute for two minutes.

Add two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, and simmer until the vinegar is almost evaporated before adding a half-cup of red wine or port.

When the port has about half boiled-off, add one-half cup of Beef Stock, six dried and quartered Mission Figs, and a fourth-teaspoon of salt as well as a fourth-teaspoon of pepper.

Simmer until the sauce thickens, which should run you about three minutes.
spoon it over the sauteed chicken, and serve with brown rice, orzo, cous-cous, or any other starchy grain side-dish you could delight in.

I would have an ingredient list, but I imagine that will be pretty lengthy to put up here, and I have a sneaky suspicion that because of the backasswards nature of this particular entry, it will be on the lengthy side without including that bit of convenience anyways.

Today's ended on a bit of a bruised note, but I'll get to that later. First I have to tell you about a stranger I met at 1:38 AM last night. It was raining, you see, but it's been extraordinarily cold as of late, so I'd figured not to go out in it like I usually do, and that I would just lay in bed until I fell asleep. However, then I heard the steamwhistles of the trains, which for some reason are extra-audible in the rain. I could resist myself after that, and I knew I had to go out.

I hoofed it down the stairs to the parking lot of the apartment plot, and just kind of stood there for a bit. Eventually, a man got out of his car, lit a cigarette, and said:

Mysterious Stranger: "...Are you just standing in the rain?"
Me: "Yes. I like it."
Mysterious Stranger: "I like the rain, too."
Me: "I think it gets a bad reputation because the News calls it 'Bad Weather'."
Mysterious Stranger: "My girlfriend is one of those people who keeps an umbrella in her car at all times? She hates the rain. Says it makes her hair go everywhere."
Me: "Aah. My buddy's spent most of her time in a desert, so when rain comes, it's like, 'Aah-! Moisture!'"
Mysterious Stranger: "Ahaha."
Me: "I know how your girlfriend feels though. When my hair's not tied back, and it gets wet? I look like that uh, UFC Fighter, Clay Guida. I used to get teased for it."
Mysterious Stranger: "...I can see the resemblance. Hah-!"
Mysterious Stranger: "I used to have long hair, too, but I work security down at Carousel? This girl, she was about fifteen-"
Me: "Pulled it when you caught her shoplifting or something?"
Mysterious Stranger: "She digs her fingers into my hair and pulls, and then sprays perfume in my eyes. Almost as bad as mace. Probably the only reason she was carrying it."
Me: "Oof. Rough deal."
Mysterious Stranger: "After that I was like, 'I'm bald for as long as I hold this occupation.'"
Me: "You ever notice that you can always hear the steamwhistles when it's raining? It's like some weird Indian voodoo magic or something, but it's like the whistles only go when it's raining."
Mysterious Stranger: "...Huh. You know, you're right."
Me: "One of my friends - he lives in Puerto Rico. He's a huge train affectionado. He's pretty sad because Cabo Rojo used to have a Train Station, until they converted it into a library, because the island's all of like, a mile long?"
Mysterious Stranger: "That does seem kind of useless, yeah."
Me: "I think of him every time I hear those steamwhistles."
Mysterious Stranger: "Well, I've just finished an eighteen hour shift. I'm going to go pass out."
Me: "I'll probably do the same in a couple of minutes. It's pretty late."

And with that, he finished his cigarette, and went up to his apartment.
It was really pleasant to catch someone like that. They're few and far-between, talkative strangers are.

I'm living for myself, once again. It's a pretty good sobering-slap for me, and I'm keeping all my cogs a-whirlin' and all of my priorities straight. It's good to kind of dig my head out from my white-knighting lovesick helmet. All the same, I'm really taking account of all of my opportunities and resources, and jamming them forcefully beneath my window of opportunity. Yeah. Just try shutting that bitch with all the crap I've piled over its window-sill.

Which brings me to that sour note. First, let me set the stage; I had gotten off the phone with Liam after failing to contact Paul as well as Andy, and had sort of invited myself to a Skype phone-chat with ten or so other people, including Liam.
It was fun, but it would occasionally go quiet as people drifted in and out from Getamped matches, so I figured I'd bust out my trusty dusty Magenta Triple-Guts Grappler's Arms, and see if I still had it in me.

I didn't, but CyberConnect was more than pleased to show that it still had it, if "it" were shitty server connections that allow me to win with my cheap-ass accessory and train-collision fighting style.

I really squished Liam's toes. And then his potential Girlfriend one-on-ones me, and says I need to understand his circumstances. I quietly informed her that I've known him far longer than her, and have duly noted them as such, and well...

I guess I may as well have written, "HUGE BITCH, BLUH BLUH" across my forehead.

Drama, drama, drama.

Bluh.

I get up in four hours.
Hark, that be'th the call of IRL.

Fuggituhbowdit.

I spent most of today visiting the Little Italy side of New York. They had an Italian heritage festival there, where there was more eggplant, tomato, and oregano going around than I could handle. When I got home, I thought to try two recipes I'd encountered there - fried ravioli and the caprese baguette.

Some family tension kind of broke there.
My sister and mother broke into a bit of a square-off after my mother inadvertently ditched her at a clothing outfitter - which happened to have all sorts of crazy stuff that I bet a few friends of mine would dig - they had this oldschool hat that would've made Liam look like This Guy, only blonde-ish.

I'm short fifteen bucks after going, but y'know?
I think it was worth it to have something to write about.

The postal service is finally re-handling Hjalmar's package.
I hope to have it out. Again.

By the by, the Caprese Baguette?

Totally easy to make.
Mozzarella on a baguette, set to broil. Cook two strips of bacon, and once the fat renders, drop three slices of tomato into it with an Italian herb of your choice.
Pat it all down, later it, and squish it so that mozzarella runs over everything.

Perfect.

Also, I felt sort of good about myself. At this little antique joint, they had some vintage postcards - y'know, the sort that look like watercolor paintings and daguerreotypes?
My sister tried to get me one before she realized she didn't have her money on her.
Said, "You're always getting me things. I wanted to return the favor."

I think that, coupled with the fact that my mother wouldn't give her the postcard on-credit because she was on her way out kind of let the animosity between them smolder.

Regardless, I was really flattered.

Full Recap and a Picture of Me Cooking.

Awhile back, Pyon sent me this as an "accurate depiction of what I look like whenever I cook for someone."

It's about right. Yesterday, I took a leftover chicken breast and added it to two stalks of celery, some quartered baby carrots, half an onion and seasoned it with some lemon juice, and both black and white pepper. I set it all to a light boil and sat down to write postcards.

My little sister, who had been watching reality television on the sofa, goes "Whatever you're making in there smells like goodness."
She's not much for vegetables. She'd sooner die than eat a stalk of celery, and you can simply forget about anything remotely near the tomato or squash. When she was young, she tried to join me in my Vegetarianism and was so malnourished from the fact that, with her eating habits, Vegetarianism amounted to her not eating anything as opposed to not eating meat, since "Vegetable" isn't in her vocabulary.

Regardless, you get it. She doesn't eat vegetables.

The soup smelled so great to her that she had asked me to make her a dish of it, regardless of what was in it. She liked it. I really did look like that picture - ladle and everything.

A local grocer has contacted me with regards to working there. It's close but not too close. I could probably jog there if they didn't mind me all winded and gross when I arrived. I contacted the guy, Paul, and things seem pretty good. To anyone else, this is minimum wage, but to me it's an overwhelming opportunity to whirl my gears and inch closer to my fantasies. I'm excited. Perhaps a little irrationally excited. They have fresh foods chef-jobs, and I could totally julienne crap for seven dollars an hour.

I finished Kaiji with Hjalmar, A.J., and John last night. It ended off on a pretty unexpected note. Despite all the triumphant work Kaiji manages, he gets too proud and careless, and challenges Hyoudo, the Chairman of the Yakuza-like organization he's being managed by. when he loses, they slice off the fingers he bet. Missing an ear, and now his fingers, Kaiji basically goes home, broke. It's only the first season, mind you. Still, what a way to end off.

Scoped out College opportunities in Syracuse.
The local one will manage my education and cover anything the G.I. Bill typically wouldn't via their Gold-Ribbon policy. This is not counting their community scholarships which may very well leave me kind of wealthy. Moreso if I work while I am being educated. This is an ideal situation, but I don't know just how readily it will all work. Regardless, I'm excited. I can make this work.

Hjalmar sent me some of Ben l'Oncle Soul's work recently.
You can check him out Here.
He's essentially a French soul musician who does really bitchin' covers.
Definitely worth a listen. In addition to being legitimately talented, he seems like a really nice guy - reminds me a lot of Jack Johnson. I can't imagine Ben or Jack ever being angry with anyone, ever. If you mugged them, I bet they'd wave you off, smiling. Oh, by the by, don't let Soulman irk you if you're not a fan of French - he does English covers too, and with a delightful and elusive accent.

Been looking into reading Homestuck.
I've been working out to some of Kanaya's themes because they're very calm and relaxing, and I forget my body's burning when they're going. Just the opposite, when I'm really getting started, Karkat and Vriska really set my pace. Right now, Homestuck's just music to me though. I'll see if it's anything I can get into later.

Until then, I'll be around sporadically as I sort crap out.

It's My Birthday.

Thanks everyone.

And thank you, John, for the beautiful picture.

It's been a hell of a day so far.

Air Muscle.

I don't really have a picture for you today. Most of the time, I would have the decency to include one, but I'm working very hard and if you're still reading, I'd like to think you have a legitimate interest in the crap I do as opposed to a taste for my mediocre eraser-doodling - though I have one of those planned for any moment I can sit back to do it. It's not exactly the finishing the Gauntlet one, but rather re-purposing it, sort of.

It's hard to explain.
I have a sneaking suspicion it'll look a bit like Hellboy.

Regardless of debating your intentions for reading - if you're reading - I'm going to just cut to the chase. I've an unparalleled opportunity to work at Gold's Gym, where I've been working-out for the full extent of the Free Trial Membership included with my apartment.
Tomorrow, at 5:00 AM, I'm going to drop in to see if I can't be a face. Something more than a resume. I'd like to get there sometime early so I can show them that I don't mind getting up at 4:00 to meet their 5:00 shifts.

My heart's a little heavy.
I think I wished I would've just sat back to watch some Friendship Is Magical with Alex and Emily. I guess I could've handled all the crap I did tonight in the morning.

Oh well.
Who cares? I've got something to show for the evening. I've made a stride in the right direction again. I'm taking that window of opportunity while it's open.

In lieu of a picture, I suppose you can have This, so that the title of this makes a little more sense. Working at a Gym is also moe~, you see.

Catch you at 6:00 or so.

Work in Progress.

This is the right shoulder of Gauntlet, from Heroes of Newerth. John used to play it all the time. I was going to draw a friend of mine up in the Basel as Gauntlet, because Gauntlet's hand explodes into divine flame.

After tinkering around with it for a little, and preparing to add the head, and a menacingly curled normal-arm in the distance, I'd overheard a long-winded and angry rant. Someone's friend, it seemed, is on their umpteenth divorce, chasing that 'Spark' of initial romance or whatever.

All through the panes of my window, all I could hear were lines like, "Sometimes, life happens", and "There aren't that many modern-day love stories", and "So many people seem perfect and then they fall apart."

I don't know how to feel about that, but it made me question what I was doing, propping my feet up to doodle. I'm going to take life by the horns again.

I have to be.
I have to do.
I am a Rearden.

I am.
I think.
I will.

I will not be a statistic.
I will break the mold.
I will tear this stupid sense of complacency way from myself.
I am a work in progress, and my progress will not be halted.