Stumbling Into February

A writer I know once suggested that adulthood can be gauged by exactly how much of one's personal morals and ethics are compromised. The higher the compromise, the greater the adulthood. I like that sentiment, and of course by saying I like it, I mean I loathe its truth.

A hundred years of school later, I find that my bubble of life, the free-thinking freelance journalist, is in mid-burst. I am now doing marketing for a firm I dislike that practices a certain branch of law I cannot stand. And I can be proud now. At 27 and 2 months, I have achieved adulthood. All I need to do now is start selling jewelry, pump out some offspring and practice a plastic but inpenatrable (sp?) smile and I will be set for life. And by saying life, I mean a living death.

Not writing articles seems to have slowed down my inquisitive nature, as well, as my adventures in Second Life have slowed to a crawl. Also, each improvement to the viewer makes my own computer a little bit more obsolete each time, so now I'm crashing more than Mickey Rourke's career in the 1990s. I am getting on long enough to check out, say, the gallery of Jenn Villota (you'll have to find her on your own, which you can through google or flickr). Jenn's work is brutal, bloody and sex-charged. I find, the worse the economy here in Writerville gets, the more I find I like Jenn's work.

I say it's bad, but it's not sooo bad. One cannot become a freelance journalist and then count on the next story to buy one's dinner. The next story should, instead, buy the dinner you plan to have in a year. And that's where I am at present.

I haven't seen much of Clifford lately. After a bit of interest, he fell into the role of Paranoid Guy and was convinced I was out to get him. After talking him down, I found myself a bit too exhausted to persue any e-lationship with him. If I am going to be someone's mother in-world, I will go to one of the adoption agencies.

Not that the other guys I run into are much better. There's one who keeps IMing me when I am offline to ask if he can collar me. I keep writing back, 'does that mean you'll give me what a good captive should have? Place to live? Clothes? Amusement?' He does not reply to that. I'm hardly going to be online just to be the pole greaser for a fuckstick with no responsibility.

Eh, I'm babbling now. What? You knew that? Well, of course you did. Thanks for listening...

Viewer to a Kill

So I was driving the other day and split a newbie in two. I felt bad, of course. I had just bought those tires, and now I had to get all that newbie blood off of the grooves for fear my car would start acting like a newbie: running into walls, jerking back and forth, overusing gestures and asking women, "were u from?"

I haven't read much about this from any other SL'er, but the new viewer is making me want to strangle some puppies. Thanks to the latest batch of improvements, which includes generally outpacing what my computer can keep up with (and automatically readjusting my settings to "piss poor", I believe it is) and having people materialize as a cloud of vaper (a wiiiiiiiiiild improvement over the greyness of strangers, eh?) for 1 second to about 5 minutes, I now crash more frequently than John McCain over Vietnam. This has curbed my shopping sprees severely - I have only bought one new dress in a fortnight, which is a personal record - as well as taking a great deal of the fun out of my traditional activity of plonking a random word in the search engine and exploring to my heart's content. Even transporting can give me that frozen-moment-in-time feeling just as the Second Life Crash Notice arrives in the middle of my screen.

The other day, though, I was happily united/reunited/introduced to the one and only Olivia Hotshot. Olivia and I met, of all places, on flickr and had been bandying about some chuckles and observations for a few months, it seems. Finally, we met in-world and she was even more frustratingly lovely and kind in virtual person as she is in her flickr photo account. Still, I did have to take a break at one point, as I crashed in the middle of a balloon ride. How embarrassing is that? It's like crapping oneself on a date with a handsome rogue of good breeding. "Sorry, be right back..."

When I get irritated by such things, I tend to seek out newbies and - well, not pick on them, exactly - but pass on my irritation to them. In most cases, honestly, I do like to chat up new folks to SL because they are, for the most part, the nicest people. They haven't learned to be right bitches and bastards yet. But those aren't the ones I seek out. I seek out the ones who read about hot sex on SL from CNN or the BBC and show up with their muppet faces and wooden cock attachments looking to rub one off in time to watch the news. They are easy enough to spot (see Cock, Big Wooden, Attachment Of), so I sort of get in their sights and then mercilessly rip them to pieces. Usually, this takes the form of correcting their grammar, but sometimes, I simply deride them with cruel and intense laughter. Of course the best way to make these morons get stuck in the mud of their own logic, is to chide them with, "Do I want to fuck you? Are you serious? Would *YOU* fuck you? Not likely. So why would anyone else want to?"

Yeh, I'm not the nicest person at times...