khaosworks | Not Everybody Dies... sometimes

Look, let's get one thing straight here, if at all. I don't do journals well. I know, everyone says that, and most people are just too damn boring or too damn lazy to update, and I'm one of them. I mean it. The only reason I'm even contemplating this is because on occasion I get the urge to rant about something and actually doing it on my own website involves formatting and other HTML crap that, if I want to keep the ranting fresh, I just don't want to get into.

So I don't guarantee regularity, or even coherence. As long as we got that straight right off the bat, I think we'll be okay.

I just got back from Worldcon in Philadelphia - which was the usual barrel of laughs. No, I'm not being sarcastic or curmudgeonly anymore - I mean it. Conventions are always fun. I get to see old friends, make new ones, and hang out with people who I think are generally cool and who think I'm generally cool as well. The only bad news was that when I got to Worldcon, I was nursing the initial stages of a cold which I contracted from Mom.

But I soldier on, through the open filks and the panels I've been assigned to attend, and I don't factor in large amounts of water, nor do I factor in the warm - but surprisingly dry - weather. So on the Sunday morning (2nd September) I wake up to a voice that wouldn't be able to compete harmoniously with a choir of frogs on their worst day. I had to cancel my appearance on a panel and, much to the disappointment of many, my concert as well.

This state of voice has essentially lasted until now. Since my job involves large amounts of talking - and swearing and yelling at people - this makes me completely ineffective, so I'm naturally taking off sick. At this point, the meds my family GP has foisted on me have started to cure me - even though I still sound like a Dalek - so I should be adequately recovered in a couple of more days. Not at full singing strength, but enough to swear and yell at people.

Now, you got to understand first of all that God doesn't do this crap to me for no reason. Well, sometimes He does, but generally there's something He wants to tell me. I call it the law of conservation of evil: the total amount of evil in a closed system remains constant, hence helping an old lady across the street will cause floods in Pakistan. Or something. You get the idea. Nothing bad happens but something good, and vice versa. This has applied to my life a great deal - particularly in grades. If I do four papers, I do great on three, but there's one which I will invariably do only middling to adequate. Which is His way of telling me, "Nice work kid - don't get cocky."

So what does this have to do with anything? Well, this explains why He chose to strike my voice down. I went back to the office on Saturday to convince my boss that my voice was indeed lost in the nether reaches of the universe, and discovered that I had been "provisionally" accepted for the Fulbright Scholarship. This doesn't mean I get it. This means I've been deemed worthy enough to apply for it. Which is always a step up. From not being worthy, that is.

When I saw the note telling me this clipped to the stack of forms I realized, "Oh, this is what He's up to this time." I dread to think, however, what He's going to do for an encore if I actually get the Fulbright. Bubonic plague, perhaps.

But I digress.

Anyway, I'm happy, I'm bouncing, and now I'm scrambling around to get people to write me letters of recommendation. So far I've managed to track down one of my old professors in Cambridge, and one of my old lecturers in the National University. So I'm happy. Except... the forms say it has to be typewritten, and I don't have a goddamn typewriter! Who uses a fucking typewriter these days anyway? The PDF file they sent me doesn't help much because I don't have Adobe Acrobat, just the reader - which does not allow me to edit. Whoo hoo.

He never makes it easy. Hey, if He did, it probably wouldn't be as much fun. It's like getting laid. Sure, I could pay for it, and considering the dates, the flowers, the persuasion, it'd probably be cheaper just to go to a cathouse - but it still feels like using the cheat codes. It's the breaking down of the defences that feels good, the overcoming the obstacles, until you reach that end zone and you score. Literally.

But I digress. Again.

So. Anyway, here's hoping. Please sacrifice the requisite virgins, goats and virgin goats on my behalf. I'll be going down to the National University in a little while, and begging for my transcript from them. Little detail: I never bothered to pick up my Diploma for the one year I spent there. I wonder, after six years, is it still waiting for me?

Nah, I don't think so either. But I'll let you know.

Later, all.