On a picture or two.

Drunk.  Deal with it.

Also, this is in the middle of Philly right now.

I can't stop giggling about it, particularly the inscription in the corner.

On a lazy Saturday.

I'm sitting on a couch watching the crap out of Community with my girlfriend.

So no nuggets of wisdom from me.  Go on, shoo.  I'll probably have something more substantial to say on... (checks watch) Monday.

On a quick thought.

In this day and age, when we can access any information or contact anyone we want at a moment's notice, nothing fosters a freak-out quite like being on a plane.

(taking it easy today; I've been traveling.  See you tomorrow, guys.)

On futures.

I know, I know.  That's a pretty vague title to work with.  But bear with me.

The next week or two is going to see me make some very serious decisions.  The determination of where a new interpersonal relationship is going, a choice between two jobs that could very well determine which direction I'm taking my career.  These decisions are going to impact my lifestyle to the core - the hours I sleep, the money I budget.

And if I look far enough into the future, the decisions I make in the next two weeks might have life-altering consequences in the coming years.  They could change my timeline on opening my own place, or cancel it out entirely in pursuit of another branch of the food world.  They could determine where I live.  And these things are all terrifying; the thought that the entire direction of my life comes down to a couple of decisions made in a few short days.

And then I ask myself, how is this any different from any of the other heavy decisions I've made?  What's so great about my life now that I should be frightened of moving in any direction?

So to hell with it.  I'm going to let the next couple of weeks happen.  I'm not going to think too much about things; I'm going to do what feels right.  And I'm going to forge ahead into this year and all the years after.  Because you can't go back, and there's no point in standing still.

Yes, the future is fucking terrifying.  But you know what?  It always will be.  So suck it up and get moving.  There's shit to get done.  Your future isn't going to get here on its own.

On the new Darmok.

So yesterday, this happened:

Afshin:  it just occurred to me right now

  that that shaka, when the walls fell episode

  our use of photo macros to make memes

  that's the same fucking thing

  we show a picture of grumpy cat, and two words carry way more meaning.

me:  Holy shit.

  That's brilliant.

Being the jobless nerd that I am, I couldn't wait to share this revelation with the Twitterverse.  Tom was swift to answer the call, and the three of us spent the next hour or so spitballing a number of phrases to be used in #thenewDarmok.

Boromir, far from Mordor:  An admonition that the task ahead is more difficult than it might seem.
Ermahgerd Girl, her hands full:  Great excitement and delight, foolish giddiness.

Fry, his eyes squinting:  Skepticism.

Greg blazing, smiling:  A kind, charitable act.

McKayla on the podium:  A state of nonplussment, unimpressed.

Morpheus, his visage calm:  Revelation, realization of a new concept.

Picard, his arm outstretched:  Encouragement, a spur to action.

Steve, hat sideways, eyes wanting:  Unethical behavior, particularly moochery.

Tard, her brow furrowed:  Displeasure.

Tard, her eyes wide:  Extreme displeasure, revulsion.

Vader in the ocean:  Futility, a hopeless or purposeless endeavor.

Now, I'm not nearly as up on my memes as I should be, so I'm certain there's a ton of others to be crafted.  Let's hear it, internet!  We've got a whole new idiomic language to create.

On playing roles.

Today, employing both the Twitters and the Bookface, one Miss Kitty dropped storychum in the water using the quintessential "Once upon a time..." hook.  There were several results, including this.  And you know what?  It was fun.  Especially operating within 140 characters, having to hand the story over to your partner after your brief thought, trusting them to take the reins, to keep the story alive with their ideas of where the tale should go.

Now, I'm no stranger to collaborative storytelling.  Those of you who've known me for quite some time know (and consistently mock, you bastards) that I frequently write here, and that I can periodically be found here.  There's an inimitable joy in seeing where a story can go with only a few parameters to work with, to see how others see a situation and move the characters along.  Anyone who's written fiction knows at least a little of what I'm talking about, and anyone who's acted definitely understands.

Is it escapism?  Maybe a little.  But to take what you know of the world, to take your own emotions and experiences and craft them into a character with a history and a story to tell is one of the most cathartic and satisfying things I know.  Even if it never sees the light of day, I highly recommend it.  Take a second and envision someone.  Create them from scratch, dig deep into yourself to see what they look like, how they speak, how they act and react to the world around them.  Bring them to life, even if it's just in your own head.

Because if you don't stretch your imagination from time to time, how can you know it's really there?  And if you don't write it down, how can you know it ever existed?

On paying attention.

When I came downstairs today, my cat Alistair was curled up on the couch, looking despondent.  This is nothing new, really.  He gets this faraway look in his eyes when his face is mooshed into the cushion; the look of ennui etched into his ailuran mien like a Frenchman looking out over the Seine is both adorable and hilarious.  But he didn't immediately jump up, chirruping madly with wide, hungry eyes like he normally does when he knows food is coming.  I noticed it, but didn't think much of it.

I showered and went out, hitting the co-op and dropping my car off at the mechanic.  And when I came back, he hadn't moved from his spot.  I went over to him and started petting him, and he still seemed a little sluggish in response.  He didn't immediately start purring and kneading the cushion before him like he normally did.  So naturally, I began to panic.  Was he sick?  Was he depressed?  What was wrong?  I couldn't tell if he had eaten his breakfast or if Zevran was just a pig.  And I couldn't exactly ask him what was up.  Or I could, but I couldn't expect a sensible answer.

I firmly believe the world is made up of patterns.  Maybe it's how your cat acts, or how a sitcom writes its episodes.  Maybe it's the order in which your mailman delivers to your street, or how your significant other ends a text conversation.  And when these patterns break, that usually means something happened.  More often than not, it means something's wrong.

Patterns exist for a reason.  Familiarity is how we know everything's okay.  A friend of mine came back from visiting a boy she was seeing, a visit that did not go well.  She had her own patterns, her own rituals, and in such close proximity in unfamiliar territory, her patterns were disrupted.  Her mood turned, her outlook shifted.  And, simple as that, what should have been lovely time spent turned into a grueling stretch of discomfort and angst.

I guess what I'm saying is pay attention.  Take the time to recognize the patterns around you, the patterns in your own life, and stay sharp when they shift.  Maybe they'll point to a boyfriend indulging in a little subterfuge, or help you figure out what's wrong when you're in a shitty mood.  Maybe you can tell your boss is about to lay you off, or your favorite sandwich shop is about to change its hours.

Or maybe it'll just help you get to know someone better, to understand what they need to hear or see you do to make them smile.  And maybe that's the greatest reason to pay attention of all.

(Alistair seems to be doing better, by the way.  Pettings have led to happy purrings and sleepy kneading.  I'm still going to have to keep an eye on him at dinnertime, but I think the little guy's all right.)