Captain's Log

08.18.08: Tech Issues

Based on my inbox, we all know the site fell down a bit earlier this month. This is where my back-ups would come in handy, eh? Good thing they didn't, y'know, get placed on that hard drive my brother broke last month. Anyhow, I managed to scrape up random pieces of the site from here or there, and luckily I had a second copy of my archives elsewhere on the intrawebs.

Bad news is that most of the new stuff I planned to debut soon went bye-bye. I've still possession of the actual content, but none of the coding that gets it from me to you lovely folks. I know the Captain's Log remains the most popular feature (even before it was the only one), but I never intended S.O. to exclusively be my lame ramblings. That's what Xanga is for, besides playing the “Is That Photo Real Or Stolen?” game.

That said... Today I had a mildly epic battle involving bees.

It all started when I had class in a building non-existent to maps, named “Building G.” Ah, what helpful nomenclature, especially being that there were no buildings A through D. I went to buy some ten-dollar coffee, and none of the other people I spoke with knew of this building. Sipping my drink and shouldering my bag, I wandered in the direction that was not forest. I'm still ticked at forests right now, but we won't touch on that.

I shuffled past the bridges and walked along the pseudo-lake, pondering how unpleasant the journey would be once the sub-zero weather came about, and once again thinking how awesome a velicoraptor mount would be. Eventually, I spotted a small cluster of buildings off in the distance, and lo, I found Building G, otherwise known as "Brook Farm," apparently. *sigh* I would pick a class out in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, despite my journey, I had about fifteen minutes before class and the door was locked. I figured I would explore this post-farm, mostly because no one was around and I felt awkward standing there with a bunch of nearby swans staring at me. And the freaking heron. Those definitely aren't local to here.

The back of the building pretty much consisted of daffodils on steroids, but then again, my horticulture skills end at shoving seed-like objects into dirt. Not sure what to make of the intimidating stalks, I moved past and found a greenhouse, but the place was empty and I couldn't open the second door leading into the main building. This was about when I heard the buzzing.

I let out a few select curses, and turned around to notice a couple hives and two bees landed on my sleeve, plus the thirty-some flying around. Now, there's a pretty good chance I'm allergic to these honey-making fiends, being that most of my relatives are. I never desired to test it, truthfully. Then one landed on my neck. Besides the fact that the front of my neck is tortuously ticklish, I had to imagine the best-case scenario would be hellish pain. My lavender vanilla lotion really betrayed my trust, here.

I spent the next three minutes breathing through my stomach and slowly inching my way towards the door, willing myself to not trip. Around this time of the year, bees are angry creatures. I can't blame them for it. If death had been dangled over my head since childhood, I'd probably be pretty sore about the whole deal too. At least I left the door open when I came in, and the bees sort of flew back once I went outside, so I slammed the door and went back to the birds.

The experience didn't quite top falling through floorboards, but I now possess an even greater trepidation towards insects.

Also, it'd be nice if, for once, finding a twenty-dollar bill on the ground was my excitement for the day. I wouldn't mind, I promise.

I miss Chicago. I'm not sure what about it, exactly, but something's there that certainly isn't here. The dorms made me pretty miserable, but I think once I get an apartment then maybe whatever's missing will fall into place, in time. I decided to not even think about the possibility of my current predicament ending everything. The numbness in my chest hardly even bears noticing, these days.

I figure one year worth of hurt is worth the greater picture, and if I can better myself in the time being, then that's great.

Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive, and then go and do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

Harold Whitman

All ramblings of Erica Feggestad 2000-2008