I don't know if it's been obvious, but I haven't been spending much time on the internet lately. Be it writing here, compulsively checking my email, or dickin' around via some form of instant messaging, I'm not really in the mood to spend my free time in the company of the internet. So, yeah, if my online presence diminishes further, fear not. I'm simply living in fantasy worlds that aren't dependent on a cable modem to enjoy or communicate about.
Hope all's well with y'all.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
If only Horselover Fat could weigh in on all this.
Day by day, I dig deeper into the layers of the worlds I have created and the worlds that have created me. There is no core, yet Carcosa is at the center of it all, doom and solipsism knotted into the roots of a yellow-tainted Yggdrasil. Carcosa and the deus absconditus, both Demiurge and Logos clothed in tattered yellow robes, tendril-roots writhing against themselves behind a merciful mask.
In less dreamlike, obsessive news- at least to me- I think that the neighborhood roaches and I have reached an agreement. Alas, I fear that it's really just a repeat of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, though the Soviet and Third Reich roles have yet to be assigned.
I highly recommend visiting the Broken Obelisk outside the Rothko Chapel in the wee hours, when it's just you and the sculpture/monument in question.
In less dreamlike, obsessive news- at least to me- I think that the neighborhood roaches and I have reached an agreement. Alas, I fear that it's really just a repeat of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, though the Soviet and Third Reich roles have yet to be assigned.
I highly recommend visiting the Broken Obelisk outside the Rothko Chapel in the wee hours, when it's just you and the sculpture/monument in question.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Worlds within worlds.
The amount of Warhammer Fantasy and Warhammer 40K material contained within Wikipedia is staggering.
As is my brother and I's mutual desire to be hanging out together right now, drinking whiskey and headbanging like mad.
As is my brother and I's mutual desire to be hanging out together right now, drinking whiskey and headbanging like mad.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Internet celebrities make my prostate throb in pain.
When I find myself wondering why I don't promote myself and my writing more aggressively, or why I don't trumpet some of my favorite half-assed causes far and wide, all I have to do is remember Cory Doctorow, and suddenly I'm content to be just some dude.
Doctorow's fiction ain't bad, but fuck, man, he should stick to that. DRM and Disney, two of his pet causes, aren't worth more than the letters required to spell them out, and they sure don't qualify as things worth cramming down the internet's throat on a daily basis. Of course, one could say the same about my own dipsomaniacal commentaries and heavy metal reviews, but I'm not, say, telling everyone that having to use a bottle opener when you could have a twist-top is equivalent to repellent, immoral crime, am I?
Next time you download, burn, rip, or record something illegally, rejoice. Don't couch it in half-assed ethics or rationalize it: say "yeah, I STOLE it." Maybe if everyone who stole shit flat-out admitted they were stealing, the leeches in the music/film industries would be swamped, and dudes like Doctorow would shut up for a spell and work on the craft of writing fiction... while taking a long hiatus from the internet. While you're at it, buy actual CDs, DVDs, and records, too. You're doing the right thing, even if it means you have to clog up your living space with "slow-decaying, space-hogging media."
Jesus, I bet the fucker's middle name is "Hyperbole."
Now, back to comparative anonymity, reading, and dragging my ass to bed.
Doctorow's fiction ain't bad, but fuck, man, he should stick to that. DRM and Disney, two of his pet causes, aren't worth more than the letters required to spell them out, and they sure don't qualify as things worth cramming down the internet's throat on a daily basis. Of course, one could say the same about my own dipsomaniacal commentaries and heavy metal reviews, but I'm not, say, telling everyone that having to use a bottle opener when you could have a twist-top is equivalent to repellent, immoral crime, am I?
Next time you download, burn, rip, or record something illegally, rejoice. Don't couch it in half-assed ethics or rationalize it: say "yeah, I STOLE it." Maybe if everyone who stole shit flat-out admitted they were stealing, the leeches in the music/film industries would be swamped, and dudes like Doctorow would shut up for a spell and work on the craft of writing fiction... while taking a long hiatus from the internet. While you're at it, buy actual CDs, DVDs, and records, too. You're doing the right thing, even if it means you have to clog up your living space with "slow-decaying, space-hogging media."
Jesus, I bet the fucker's middle name is "Hyperbole."
Now, back to comparative anonymity, reading, and dragging my ass to bed.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Rained out.
Addresses and years never move forward in this world. Retrogression is, maybe always has been, the operative word here, whether or not there are anachronisms embedded in the world I knew when I go back to visit.
The only constants are humidity, purest-form riffs, coffee, and a select handful of comrades.
What would today be like if I could have informed yesterday about today?
The only constants are humidity, purest-form riffs, coffee, and a select handful of comrades.
What would today be like if I could have informed yesterday about today?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Nil.
Aside from hanging out with friends, finishing The Fortress of Solitude, watching the US tie Italy in World Cup football, and going grocery shopping, I've done nothing this weekend.
Well, I did buy some records, and tomorrow Andy and I should get some shooting in for our movie.
Well, I did buy some records, and tomorrow Andy and I should get some shooting in for our movie.
Friday, June 16, 2006
A seventy-cent bone tossed to a class war dog.
Well, I got a raise today. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't just quit. I'm so sick of my job that I think I'd rather- shit, who am I kidding?- I know I'd prefer spending my summer unemployed than keep at what I'm doing.
However, my weekend has arrived, so I'll just quote Ozzy Osbourne circa August 6, 1975: "WE LOVE YOU AAAAAALLLL!"
And fuck, do I mean it. Y'all mean more to me than just about anything.
However, my weekend has arrived, so I'll just quote Ozzy Osbourne circa August 6, 1975: "WE LOVE YOU AAAAAALLLL!"
And fuck, do I mean it. Y'all mean more to me than just about anything.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Rosecrans, McCook, Thomas, Crittenden, and my pops.
As most of y'all know, I'm in the midst of proofreading and copy-editing the first volume of my pops' book about the Battle of Stones River (A Civil War battle, fought in the last and first days of 1862 and 1863, respectively). It's not a simple task, for reasons ranging from the sheer bulk of the manuscript (approximately 850 single-spaced pages, not counting the index, which hasn't been compiled yet) to the writing style, which is suitably 19th-century military report-like, to my own hit-and-miss discipline. That said, I am thoroughly enjoying myself.
This is not a popular history book that just anyone could pick up and read over the course of a week or two. It is a highly detailed, intensely researched, non-conjectural account of the battle that raged over the land that my pops grew up on in Tennessee, all of it written by a decidedly unacademic man. It is a labor of not only love, but a lifetime's worth of fascination that started with the unearthing of a Minie ball at least half a century ago.
What could have been left in the dust of history has become something tangible, something I never expected to find myself pondering at odd hours. My pops, like so many other historians, amateur and professional alike, makes me that much more aware of history and my relationship to it is, and therefore is doing what a historian should.
I am so proud of my family and everything they've taught me.
This is not a popular history book that just anyone could pick up and read over the course of a week or two. It is a highly detailed, intensely researched, non-conjectural account of the battle that raged over the land that my pops grew up on in Tennessee, all of it written by a decidedly unacademic man. It is a labor of not only love, but a lifetime's worth of fascination that started with the unearthing of a Minie ball at least half a century ago.
What could have been left in the dust of history has become something tangible, something I never expected to find myself pondering at odd hours. My pops, like so many other historians, amateur and professional alike, makes me that much more aware of history and my relationship to it is, and therefore is doing what a historian should.
I am so proud of my family and everything they've taught me.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Quick notes on the weekend.
Sean's 30th birthday celebration was excellent on several levels. The quality of the friends I have is nothing short of outstanding.
I finished Perdido Street Station a few minutes ago after spending pretty much all day reading it. I think the only things I did other than read were ride my bike a couple miles to buy tobacco and cook dinner.
I kind of want to write, but reading some more sounds equally appealing. Hmm.
I finished Perdido Street Station a few minutes ago after spending pretty much all day reading it. I think the only things I did other than read were ride my bike a couple miles to buy tobacco and cook dinner.
I kind of want to write, but reading some more sounds equally appealing. Hmm.
Friday, June 09, 2006
A four-letter word that you probably didn't know.
I cuss like a motherfucker (see? I honestly didn't even plan that), but there are some words that I try, and usually fail, to use exclusively in situations demanding unequivocal statements of loathing, hatred, biliousness, etc. The two that I use a little too freely, but, to be honest, not so freely I feel bad about it, are "cunt" and "twat." Neither has anything to do with the sex whose genitalia said terms are harsh aphorisms for; I'll willingly call a dude a cunt, or a dame a dick, when it's called for.
My least favorite cuss word, however, is "work." It's so ubiquitous in my vocabulary, and the vocabulary of society in general, that I and most folks don't even lump it in with other nasty words. This bothers me, especially since some people use the verb form of "work" proudly- "I work for a living," for example. Ugh. You might as well say "I cunt for a living," as far as I'm concerned. Of course, I myself am forced to cunt for a living, which caused me no end of grief.
You know, I think I'm going to start replacing "work," and probably "job" as well, with "cunt" when I'm talking to folks who won't yell at me for it- my friends, maybe some strangers, etc. How many people would begin to realize that so much of the work done in this world, and so much of the shit piled up regular people in the name of work, is utterly useless and despicable if they found themselves using the word "cunt" instead?
Mother to teenage son: "Get up! It's time for cunt!"
Abusive husband to wife: "Bitch! At least I've got a steady cunt!"
Two-dimensional Calvinist-type pastor: "Cunt is good for the soul."
Labor union leader: "Cunting families deserve better."
Corporate press release: "We regret that due to increased market pressures and other issues, we hereby announce that we will be cutting 10,000 cunts in the next two months."
Ad infinitum.
Fuck work/cunt.
It's time to go cunt on something that isn't cunt, because it doesn't alienate me and rob me of my human dignity.
My least favorite cuss word, however, is "work." It's so ubiquitous in my vocabulary, and the vocabulary of society in general, that I and most folks don't even lump it in with other nasty words. This bothers me, especially since some people use the verb form of "work" proudly- "I work for a living," for example. Ugh. You might as well say "I cunt for a living," as far as I'm concerned. Of course, I myself am forced to cunt for a living, which caused me no end of grief.
You know, I think I'm going to start replacing "work," and probably "job" as well, with "cunt" when I'm talking to folks who won't yell at me for it- my friends, maybe some strangers, etc. How many people would begin to realize that so much of the work done in this world, and so much of the shit piled up regular people in the name of work, is utterly useless and despicable if they found themselves using the word "cunt" instead?
Mother to teenage son: "Get up! It's time for cunt!"
Abusive husband to wife: "Bitch! At least I've got a steady cunt!"
Two-dimensional Calvinist-type pastor: "Cunt is good for the soul."
Labor union leader: "Cunting families deserve better."
Corporate press release: "We regret that due to increased market pressures and other issues, we hereby announce that we will be cutting 10,000 cunts in the next two months."
Ad infinitum.
Fuck work/cunt.
It's time to go cunt on something that isn't cunt, because it doesn't alienate me and rob me of my human dignity.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Weak. [6.6.(0)6 update VI]
The City of Houston doesn't recycle glass you leave in curbside containers. Apparently, if there's glass in your green bin, they dump the bin's entire contents back into your trash can. What the fuck is that shit?
Can't I just go back to bed and have more weird dreams? [6.6.(0)6 update V]
Ugh. I'm kind of hung over, and I think I spent all night dreaming, which fucked with my mind and made it even harder to wake up. Plus the "A" key on my laptop is acting funny.
Anyway, the truly evil thing about this date is that I have to go to work. Lucifer's got nothing on having to hold down a job.
Anyway, the truly evil thing about this date is that I have to go to work. Lucifer's got nothing on having to hold down a job.
Iche liebe Dich! [6.6.(6) Update IV]
My only regret this evening is that I haven't worked on my pops' book. Alternately, I did edit/proofread two chapters before I went to work at 4:30 PM, 6.5.06.
Most importantly, I got to talk to my brother a few minutes ago. Mein bruder ist KRIEG, and- with a few exceptions- you all pale in comparison to him.
I'll make up for how much I miss my brother by smoking another cigarette and listening to Cathedral. "ULTRAMAN VS. ROBOCHRIST, OUR TIME IS NIGH"
I wish Maren read this, 'cause she could tell me if "Ich liebe Dich" was an acceptable thing to say to one's brother. If it wasn't, I'd correct myself and leave the original statement in place, dedicated to Maren, 'cause she's rad. (Te amo tambien, Torres- donde esta mis disco punk ruck que tienes?)
Most importantly, I got to talk to my brother a few minutes ago. Mein bruder ist KRIEG, and- with a few exceptions- you all pale in comparison to him.
I'll make up for how much I miss my brother by smoking another cigarette and listening to Cathedral. "ULTRAMAN VS. ROBOCHRIST, OUR TIME IS NIGH"
I wish Maren read this, 'cause she could tell me if "Ich liebe Dich" was an acceptable thing to say to one's brother. If it wasn't, I'd correct myself and leave the original statement in place, dedicated to Maren, 'cause she's rad. (Te amo tambien, Torres- donde esta mis disco punk ruck que tienes?)
There's only one way out of here... [6.6.(0)6 Update III]
I have no idea how many 6.6.(0)6 updates I'll make, but man, they're fun. And I hope that the National Day of Slayer will one day become a national holiday, 'cause it would be pure gold to have a day off to drink beer and listen to Reign In Blood with fellow headbangers, neighbors, and so on. Beats the fuck out of Flag Day.
The Root of All Evil [6.6.(0)6 Update II]
Above my toilet I have a replica of Venom's "Seven Dates of Hell" tour poster, featuring the demonic face found on the cover of their album Black Metal. While taking a piss a minute ago, I was face to face with this somewhat cartoonish evil, and found myself silently yelling at it. The trivial trappings and images of evil may be fascinating, but in the end they are just that- trivial. I may not be a Christian in the true sense, or religious at all, but I think I know where I stand when it comes to good and evil. Maybe that's why I get such a kick out of metal.
Man, if 6.6.(0)6 keeps up like this, then I'm gonna have one hell of an interesting day.
Man, if 6.6.(0)6 keeps up like this, then I'm gonna have one hell of an interesting day.
6.6.06 does not equal 2-3-74 (I hope, I think). [6.6.(0)6 Update I]
All right, I know I should blame it all on reading Sutin's Phil Dick bio, or today's date, or my recent on and off ocular pain (which only seems to occur at work, probably due to too much time in front of monitors and psychosomatic shit caused by across-the-board loathing of my job), or drinking (even though I'm not drunk, or close to it, right now), or the roaches that use my driveway as a highway and my half-assed compost pile as a feeding ground, or the dozen flies I killed (by the way, Dave [roommate Dave, not myself in the third person], I noticed that during the day they like to buzz their way inside when people come in or go out, which might explain things) tonight, or the way I could see the blinking red light atop the radio/tv/whatever tower south of here through the trees, or my usual paranoia/hatred/fear of cops even when I'm on my own property doing exactly nothing wrong, or my laptop's refusal to read my USB keychain drive and demand that I format it, or who the fuck knows what, but tonight (since getting off work especially) has been one fucking bizarre and portentious cluster of hours.
This happens roughly once a year, in one form or another. Usually it's not as, well, fucking symbolic and all-encompassing as this feels, which makes me wonder if this particular handful of somewhat stressful but fascinating and dynamic hours is at all like the first-steps-towards-breakdown I had in 2002 and 2003. I don't think it is, because right now I'm aware of my mind working in two ways simultaneously whenever I fixate on or freak out about something (e.g. "dude, that roach is twitching its left antenna exclusively"; "I can probably see that light blinking even if I close my eyes"; "motherfuck, I hope I never see anything resembling God"; "motherfuck, if I never see God my life is ruined"; "why the hell is Blogger doing weird formatting to this paragraph as I type"; etc. etc.), namely:
Smith, you're legitimately freakin' the fuck out;
and
Smith, you dumb son of a bitch, you're letting yourself freak the fuck out for whatever reason, and your foundation of philosophical/theological/existential/ontological doubt isn't gonna let you get away with thinking you're going through some kind of revelatory experience.
Fuck it! I'm gonna roll with whatever this is and try to make the most out of it- which may be nothing at all, though I suspect that as soon as I'm done typing this sentence I'll go give Tim his antibiotics and then head straight to Unheimlich and pound away for a while.
Not true. First I want to bid everyone a good night/morning/day and remind y'all not that today is the National Day of Slayer, and that despite outbursts like this, I'm neither mentally unstable nor desire to be. So: good night/morning/day, and go blast Slayer in celebration of what's probably the 18th or 19th 6.6.06 since John's Revelation.
P.S. Why am I telling any of you this?
This happens roughly once a year, in one form or another. Usually it's not as, well, fucking symbolic and all-encompassing as this feels, which makes me wonder if this particular handful of somewhat stressful but fascinating and dynamic hours is at all like the first-steps-towards-breakdown I had in 2002 and 2003. I don't think it is, because right now I'm aware of my mind working in two ways simultaneously whenever I fixate on or freak out about something (e.g. "dude, that roach is twitching its left antenna exclusively"; "I can probably see that light blinking even if I close my eyes"; "motherfuck, I hope I never see anything resembling God"; "motherfuck, if I never see God my life is ruined"; "why the hell is Blogger doing weird formatting to this paragraph as I type"; etc. etc.), namely:
Smith, you're legitimately freakin' the fuck out;
and
Smith, you dumb son of a bitch, you're letting yourself freak the fuck out for whatever reason, and your foundation of philosophical/theological/existential/ontological doubt isn't gonna let you get away with thinking you're going through some kind of revelatory experience.
Fuck it! I'm gonna roll with whatever this is and try to make the most out of it- which may be nothing at all, though I suspect that as soon as I'm done typing this sentence I'll go give Tim his antibiotics and then head straight to Unheimlich and pound away for a while.
Not true. First I want to bid everyone a good night/morning/day and remind y'all not that today is the National Day of Slayer, and that despite outbursts like this, I'm neither mentally unstable nor desire to be. So: good night/morning/day, and go blast Slayer in celebration of what's probably the 18th or 19th 6.6.06 since John's Revelation.
P.S. Why am I telling any of you this?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Thank you.
Dave, Linda, Dave, Devin, Jay, Meg, Arthur, Danielle, Christian, Dr. Jordan, and all the strangers I met tonight: thank you so very, very much.
I love you all immensely, and my only regret is that I'm such a failure when it comes to expressing that love verbally.
Thank you again.
Te quiero con todo mi corazon hasta los dias finales,
D.A.S.
I love you all immensely, and my only regret is that I'm such a failure when it comes to expressing that love verbally.
Thank you again.
Te quiero con todo mi corazon hasta los dias finales,
D.A.S.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Mixed media.
I've stayed close to home today in order to make sure I didn't miss any of Tim's scheduled antibiotic treatments. While it's an ordeal trying to administer his eye drops without any help, they seem to be working; he's not running around with his left eye shut anymore. In eight hours, I take him back to the vet for a follow-up, and Dr. Long Ghost will also make the trip for his first checkup ever. (Please don't point out my negligence, because I'm already aware of it.)
Friday was a day of reading, writing, cooking, and editing, which is to say it wasn't terribly different than most Fridays. I talked to my folks and drank German beer and wine out of my WWI canteen cup, and sat in the back of the Jeep smoking cigarettes and reading because the recent rains made my usual folding chair uninhabitable. Everything I watched on TV I'd already seen at least once, except for the commercials, which seem to reach a new level of appallingness every time I turn on the tube, so I just turned down the volume and wrote.
Tomorrow- today, whatever, y'all know my schedule- I'll probably make some brief social appearances before coming home to write more, take care of Mr. Finnegan, and wonder why I
wonder why.
No, I know the answer to that already.
Coming soon: commentary on the new Celtic Frost and Katatonia records.
Friday was a day of reading, writing, cooking, and editing, which is to say it wasn't terribly different than most Fridays. I talked to my folks and drank German beer and wine out of my WWI canteen cup, and sat in the back of the Jeep smoking cigarettes and reading because the recent rains made my usual folding chair uninhabitable. Everything I watched on TV I'd already seen at least once, except for the commercials, which seem to reach a new level of appallingness every time I turn on the tube, so I just turned down the volume and wrote.
Tomorrow- today, whatever, y'all know my schedule- I'll probably make some brief social appearances before coming home to write more, take care of Mr. Finnegan, and wonder why I
wonder why.
No, I know the answer to that already.
Coming soon: commentary on the new Celtic Frost and Katatonia records.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Q & A deuce (apologies to Elspeth).
Q. Mr. Smith, what is your deepest regret?
A. Killing colossi.
Q. Is that all? Participating in a video game?
A. Fuck you. I dare you to do the same and not feel something...
... well, I also regret not being as interesting a writer as Bill Burroughs, or Thomas Pynchon, or any number of slightly crazed writers, in the sense that nobody's ever gonna read my books and want to fuck with consensus reality.
A. Killing colossi.
Q. Is that all? Participating in a video game?
A. Fuck you. I dare you to do the same and not feel something...
... well, I also regret not being as interesting a writer as Bill Burroughs, or Thomas Pynchon, or any number of slightly crazed writers, in the sense that nobody's ever gonna read my books and want to fuck with consensus reality.
Q & A.
Q. Mr. Smith, how have you managed to have a half-decent evening in spite of the following:
-your beloved ferret Tim Finnegan having to go to the vet
-missing a night of work and not getting paid for it
-having to put drops in Mr. Finnegan's eye at bizarre hours
-barely having the money to cover the vet bills
-having a job you loathe, whether or not you're there
-forgetting you made dinner and then going out and paying for it
-not getting enough work done on your dad's book
?
A. Cigarettes, my good friends Dave, Sara, Shari, and Matt, and an internal wellspring of spiritual resilience. I'm like a Skara Brae ranger, pre-Ultima VII, minus the mantra and shrine action.
Q. That's- that's really it?
A. Well, writing and records never hurt, either, and I've enjoyed, so to speak, plenty of both this evening.
Q. What've you been writing?
A. More of my new novel.
Q. And listening to?
A. Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Blue Oyster Cult, and the new Celtic Frost and Katatonia records.
Q. How's Mr. Finnegan?
A. Fine, aside from his painful eye. I'm going to bayonet the shit out of things if his eye doesn't get better.
Q. Is there anything else you'd like to say?
A. I love you all. And I love my ferret buddies Tim Finnegan and Dr. Long Ghost no less than I love my fellow humans. All y'all take it easy.
-your beloved ferret Tim Finnegan having to go to the vet
-missing a night of work and not getting paid for it
-having to put drops in Mr. Finnegan's eye at bizarre hours
-barely having the money to cover the vet bills
-having a job you loathe, whether or not you're there
-forgetting you made dinner and then going out and paying for it
-not getting enough work done on your dad's book
?
A. Cigarettes, my good friends Dave, Sara, Shari, and Matt, and an internal wellspring of spiritual resilience. I'm like a Skara Brae ranger, pre-Ultima VII, minus the mantra and shrine action.
Q. That's- that's really it?
A. Well, writing and records never hurt, either, and I've enjoyed, so to speak, plenty of both this evening.
Q. What've you been writing?
A. More of my new novel.
Q. And listening to?
A. Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Blue Oyster Cult, and the new Celtic Frost and Katatonia records.
Q. How's Mr. Finnegan?
A. Fine, aside from his painful eye. I'm going to bayonet the shit out of things if his eye doesn't get better.
Q. Is there anything else you'd like to say?
A. I love you all. And I love my ferret buddies Tim Finnegan and Dr. Long Ghost no less than I love my fellow humans. All y'all take it easy.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Poor Tim Finnegan!
Not long before I left for work, Tim Finnegan woke up from one of his many daily naps and crawled out of the desk where he sleeps. I noticed that he was keeping his left eye closed, but not his right, which was highly unusual. I immediately called the Animal Avian Hospital and was told that I could come in right then for a veterinarian to check out my buddy ferret's ocular problem.
It turns out that Tim has a corneal ulcer. The actual cause is unknown, but the vet thinks it's due to getting his eye scratched by something or someone (i.e. Dr. Long Ghost). She commended my rapid response, noting that had I waited, the ulcer would have probably gotten worse, which could lead to the complete destruction of the eye. As it stands, everyone's favorite albino is now on a regimen of antibiotic eye drops, which have to be administered every few hours until the vet tells me otherwise. Tim goes back to Animal Avian on Saturday for a follow-up, and I'm taking Dr. Oliver Long Ghost in as well. He needs a checkup anyway.
I don't have any paid days off left at work, so this is costing me. Fuck it. I value Tim's friendship more than a job, and I'm glad I was around to notice that something was wrong with him and take care of it immediately. Mr. Finnegan's been one of my best friends- and a constant in my life- for almost five years now, so there's no way I'd let him down.
Frettchen über Alles.
It turns out that Tim has a corneal ulcer. The actual cause is unknown, but the vet thinks it's due to getting his eye scratched by something or someone (i.e. Dr. Long Ghost). She commended my rapid response, noting that had I waited, the ulcer would have probably gotten worse, which could lead to the complete destruction of the eye. As it stands, everyone's favorite albino is now on a regimen of antibiotic eye drops, which have to be administered every few hours until the vet tells me otherwise. Tim goes back to Animal Avian on Saturday for a follow-up, and I'm taking Dr. Oliver Long Ghost in as well. He needs a checkup anyway.
I don't have any paid days off left at work, so this is costing me. Fuck it. I value Tim's friendship more than a job, and I'm glad I was around to notice that something was wrong with him and take care of it immediately. Mr. Finnegan's been one of my best friends- and a constant in my life- for almost five years now, so there's no way I'd let him down.
Frettchen über Alles.
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