#random memory

[miercoles-wednesday]

I for some reason have a visceral memory of walking down the street in 2018 and listening to NPR News in my headphones and hearing a story that tumblr banned porn. At the time I was like “sucks for them, I don’t use tumblr.”

[aqueerkettleofish]

Suddenly reminded of a co-worker from the 90s.

You know those people who are super annoying because they think they know everything? Tony was annoying because he did know everything and a) was super bad at communicating it, and b) expected everyone to know as much as he did.

This was at a help desk. Tony was, in theory, one of the people the new agents could go to for help, but he made the process very unpleasant because he would lecture you on how you should know this already rather than just give you the answer you needed.

Then one day I got a call that made no sense.

This particular desk supported OS/2, which tried to be a competitor to Windows for a while. If you've ever done any IT work for windows, you're familiar with the dreaded blue screen of death. This customer was getting the OS/2 equivalent of that-- more accurately, she was getting a slightly more obscure version of it that I only saw one other time in the four years I supported the project.

I treated it like the standard version and did every kind of diagnostic, which either reported that things were working or had no effect. Finally, I had her read to me the weird hexadecimal dump, which I typed, printed out, and walked over to Tony's desk.

I listed every piece of diagnostic I had done and defiantly thrust the printout of the hex dump. He looks at it for less than a second, and do you know what this motherfuckers says?

"Oh, that."

He proceeds to give me the most absurd piece of diagnostic I have ever heard. (Boot to command line, change the date, boot normally, then change the date back once it's up and running.)

It works. It's the only time in my career I've ever wanted a solution to NOT fix the customer's problem.

The moral of the story is that when you go to a person for advice, and the advice seems stupid, you should remember why you went to them in the first place. In this case, I went to him because he knew more than me, so I needed to do what he said.

[shanniethecalamity]

Throwback to when I watched Chicago for the first time when I was 15 and heard Mr. Cellophane, and I was like, "Hey, this guy sounds kind of familiar." I look up the cast of Chicago, find John C. Reilly's name by the character "Amos", then I look up the stuff Reilly's in, and I see that he was the titular protagonist in Wreck-it Ralph.

My reaction: "Oh, cool." (beat) "WAIT A DAMN MINUTE, WRECK-IT RALPH CAN SING?!"

[missing-no-001]

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced being loved the way I love when I love someone. I don’t think I’ve ever had that mirrored back. Been reciprocal. Not in a romantic relationship.

the only time I can think of — a guy I met my senior year of college. we dated for a few years. We met at a bar. My friend and I joked — we can’t graduate without going to the famous frat bar. The bar where all the Greek life kids went. I don’t even remember the name. Wait, yes I do. Now I do.

I remember drinking a lot, and somehow coming across a table playing some kind of table game. My friend knew him from high school, and we went up to say hi. My memories are hazy. It was a long time ago and I was drunk.

But I remember he walked me home. And he asked if he could kiss me. And I said, uh… ok? He was cute, but in a plain, simple way. He wasn’t in a frat, but he was friends with a lot of guys in frats. Not the bad ones, the nice ones. The nice ones who were kind of blockheaded and simple, partied and got silly, had hookups and girlfriends, but were nice guys who treated you as a kind of princess. A delicate little thing, but who could still hang with the boys.

Anyway. Not my usual type. But he was so kind. So gentle. He fell in love pretty fast. I went over a lot. We had really great chemistry. He liked rough sex. It was primal, intense. We’d end up on the floor. But you could tell — well, I could tell — that he was totally in love with me. That he thought I was the most beautiful thing in the world, and he was so lucky. That it was like he was that way with me because he loved me so much and had to express it. And he was always the sweetest, gentlest, most affectionate boy afterward, and all the time.

I slept over a lot. Nice comfy bed. He’d read books or scroll the news. We’d just talk. I’d turn over and try to sleep until he turned out the light. We’d snuggle and kiss in the moonlight.

I remember any time I made him a snack — a quesadilla usually — he’d look at me like I had hung the moon. He’d always ask for one and say how great they were, how they were his favorite. He was grateful and so happy with his little quesadilla.

One time I had to have a medical procedure and had to drink like a gallon of liquid that tasted awful. Just awful. You couldn’t take more than a sip at a time without cringing and gagging. You had to drink it so many times an hour, so much an hour for several hours. He brought it to the couch where I was laying. He’d bring it out in a tiny sippy cup, and he’d sit with me as I drank each sip until I had drank it all.

He took me to his house now and then, his childhood home. His family was really nice. We had Thanksgiving once or twice. The couch and some of the furniture in my apartment was theirs.

His eyes smiled. He’d had smiling eyes. Hazel. And lots of freckles. He wasn’t the best looking guy, he had average build, but he was still cute and cuddly.

I remember one time, we were at his parent’s house, and some of his nieces and nephews came over. He was playing with them, wrestling and being silly in the living room. For some reason I remember taking a picture and uploading it to Instagram or Twitter. “My ovaries are exploding.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t.

We had a lot of memories. Some I have forgotten, most. But I remember some things, and could probably remember if I tried harder.

I remember…

I moved to Russia. I was going to be there 6 months. He said he’d wait for me. He said he’d move with me, find a way, a reason to be there with me.

The idea repulsed me.

Russia was my thing. I had my own life and things I wanted to do. I was busy. I wanted to explore. I didn’t want some boyfriend to babysit. He didn’t speak Russian, he’d be a fish out of water. And he’d be in for a very rude awakening. He was nice, smiley, affable, positive, friendly. He’d never make it in Russia. He wouldn’t like it. What would he do, anyway? What could he do? Teach English? I said — no. Stay there. It’s for the best. For your good. Besides, I’m too young to get this serious. Moving countries for me type thing.

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

But he would have.

I remember there were times on the phone where I’d get really angry. I don’t remember why. Frustrated with … something. But I’d start yelling and being mean. And he’d give me softness and gentleness in return. My anger and coldness didn’t scare him. “Baby, calm down, I’m here, you’re going to be ok.” Here, over the phone.

Something in me hated that. It made me uncomfortable. The cooing, the cloying, the baby talk.

“Stop talking like that!”

“oh…. I… I just….”

“‘Oh, oh, I just’… you just what?! It’s all fake. Stop talking to me like I’m a baby. It’s so annoying.”

“oh… oh… k….”

I knew I was being mean. Cruel. There was no reason. He didn’t deserve that. I just… did what came naturally.

Eventually, I grew colder and colder, and grew to resent him.

I don’t know why.

I remember just before Valentine’s Day. I called from Russia over WiFi.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m not in love anymore. I don’t want you to come here. I don’t want to talk anymore. Valentine’s Day is coming and I don’t want to drag you into another year of this. Give you false hope. I’m sorry, I wish it didn’t have to be over the phone.”

He was silent. He sounded crushed. Confused.

I don’t remember much after that. But I remember talking to some of his friends, some mutual friends, a while later.

“Ryan wasn’t the same for a long time. He was just… gone.”

I felt horrible.

But he fell in love again, eventually. I think he may have married her, I don’t know. They seemed poised to, last I saw a few years ago.

I don’t know why I rejected Ryan. I don’t know why my body responded to him that way. With a kind of repulsion, a visceral discomfort with his eternal sweetness, optimism, devotion, commitment. Praise, putting me on a pedestal.

What did we have in common? His parents were married and never stopped being married, probably still are. They live in the home he always lived in.

I wish I remember more.

The last real memory I have is running into his younger sister one time at a library. I walked over to her.

“Oh… it’s you… we miss you.”

“I miss you guys too… Hey, could you tell your brother something for me? He blocked me, and your mom blocked me too… I know I really hurt him. I feel so bad. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Can you just — tell him I’m sorry?”

She said, “yeah, sure. I’ll tell him.”

My mom still brings him up.

“I wish you would have ended up with Ryan. I always saw you with a guy like Ryan.”

But I’m the one who broke it off. I just didn’t feel passion. Not in return. He was pretty simple. I think he was a business major? Accounting? He seemed to have no dark side, other than the sex. No sad past, no preoccupation with something, no instinct to become someone. He seemed happy to work an average job, live in an average town.

He seemed happy.

[tales-by-a-quibbling-fox]

I love that fanfiction and writing in general is so freeing and wonderful. Anything is possible simply because we will it into fictional existence. Write what you want to write, take the leap. Case in point:

I was once challenged to write a fanfiction for a Justin Bieber Vampire AU—wherein Justin was not a vampire or the MC, he was just a normal person who was repeatedly mentioned—and I never fully understood why.

I just hope the girl I wrote it for treasured the notebook I wrote it in and then burned it when she hit 18. (I had a lot of spelling errors)

[addicted2coke-theothercoke]

When I was four---I don't think I've told this sorry yet---my dad bought me a bb gun. It was about my size, and the thing was so awkward that he had to flip it around every time to pump it, say less for little me

That experience, and attempts again when I was six, pretty heavily turned me off from learning it

By the time I was told enough to manage it without any trouble(minus the awkward design), I pretty firmly adopted an anti gun policy, and that's one that I've held for all the years sense

And yet today I visited a 40 acre sports club with my Dad, touring its ranges. And dream of a Rough Rider

[mxlazuli]

I was reminded lately of a great betrayal. Back in school(the olden days) I was excited to get a cheese dog for lunch. Until I received a block of cheese placed inside a hotdog bun. I consider this a top ten betrayal within my life.