Fantastic plastic

Me: *coming out of the kitchen, pleased* I have three plasticky dinosaurs, see?
Chris: From the coffee?
Me: Yep. Although I don't know that this one's a dinosaur. I think it's a mammal of some type.
Chris: Technically, so are you. *vaguely examines the small plastic animal* I don't know what it is, whether it's a mammal or not. I'm trying to find its nipples.
Me: *examining the belly of the animal* Its nipples say 'China'.

Yes, I do get toys from my coffee. Erasers, stick-on-tattoos, and small dinosaurs, yay. I have a teensy rubber chicken, to go with my keychain rubber chicken and my large honking rubber chicken. (Honking not in the sense of big, honking in the sense of honking. It has toenail polish. raventyde sent it to me. I love it to death.)

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Cool geek thing from Ebay.
FutureFeedForward is /awesome/.

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Not much doing around here - more of the same, except for the dinosaurs and the mystery mammal (which looks a lot like a capybara). Laundry, writing stuff (which lives in tangentialcurve these days, go join yay). And coffee. With dinosaurs in.

hardly the great pumpkin (haunted :: danielle)

This one's short enough to post here. And I thought it would amuse a few geeks who aren't members of my writing journal.

If the Timeshifters' Guildhall could be said to be haunted, it would be haunted by the server admin.

She's a very untraditional ghost, to be sure, especially by virtue of being alive; but if you were to go down into the dust-free depths of racked servers and were quiet enough, maybe taking a seat on the floor or one of the stepstools put in to make it easier to reach the higher bays, you might eventually see her. Only in the dead of night though - she really prefers it that way, doing her magic when all is silent and still.

She flickers by, just out of your range of vision, heavy shoes passing quietly, music leaking out from her headphones - heavy, dark music, ripe with the clash of guitars and moody vocals. She'll pause for a moment to peer at the linklights on a network card, comparing the flickrate to its neighbors, and you might see her still for a moment - sun-starved skin, hair short-bobbed and the surreal shade of black cherries, eyes almost the same colour as the pale green link lights she considers before her. And then she nods and moves on to the next rack, the way she brushes her fingers over the small pizza-box machines strangely intimate in its familiarity.

If you were down there, of course, she'd pause and stare at you for a moment in an attempt to assess you and your threat level. The best approach is to hold out some small token, similar to luring a frightened cat out from under the porch - a chocolate bar, perhaps - which she will snatch from your fingers and unwrap as she walks away, due to inspect the far rack of Solaris machines, trailing a soft, cynical laugh behind her.

Eeeeee!

Must find a way to see Tiny Ninja Theatre.