Once upon a time, a young woman named Charlotte, traveling in the company of her odd best friend, chanced upon a pet store in yea giganto-mall that you may or may not know as the Rideau Centre. Somewhere, deep in the back of Charlotte's mind, thoughts and feelings were being stirred together, and these were, somewhat consciously, leading her inside. It had been about two months since the death of her beloved pet rat, Cupid, and while she was by no means ready to take another rat into her life (for such things take time for the heart to mend fully), the thought of a lively mammal of some sort coming into her home was a thought that, at least theoretically, she was beginning to appreciate. So, Charlotte and her wacky pal (oui, c'est moi!) wandered in amongst the budgies, iguanas, kittens, hamsters, and Chinese algae eaters (but excluding hedgehogs; for all know that hedgehogs are the devil's pet), looking to bring a cutie pop of some order into her empty, if cozily cluttered and delightfully messy, apartment.

Out of all these creatures presenting such a confusing and exotic choice, Charlotte actually did manage to discover her destiny. She and her friend spied that most lovable of nature's curiosities -- the ferret. Ferrets, feral, weaselly predators of gophers that they are, have an odd affinity for humans that likely exists as an extension of their futile desire to eat them. Ferrets are happiest when biting some part of a human or other, preferably toes, as they seek, patiently and methodically, to bring those big fellahs down, and cripple their ability to get up and escape the hungry wrath of Ferret-or (Caira's uncanny linguistic theory is that all you have to do is attach the suffix "or" to any word to make it sound extremely evil. Her example is "Babyor." Sounds terrifying, no?). Oh, and he was a sweetie. This particular predator of men was seven weeks old, marked with the subdued greys and whites of the common ferret, and poetically expressed his frustration with the world by batting a little plastic ball with a bell inside around, and biting it gleefully. He had shiny eyes, twinkling with curiosity (and psychotic tendencies), and as they brought him out of his glassy home to be put into Charlotte's arms so that she might examine him better, his fate was sealed.

I've always adored ferrets, from the first moment I had the pleasure of an introduction to a friend's pet these many years ago. They're such curious, tenacious, bipolar creatures, and all they ask from the world is a little loving, a clean litter box, and tantalizingly sock-wearing feet to chew on. Ferrets like socks because they're chewy and taste like humans, lending some credibility to my crackpot hypothesis that, basically, all ferrets just want to eat people. For years I've maintained that someday a ferret will be brought into my home, and will be loved, as soon as I have the proper amounts of space to facilitate looking after one. I'm not sure what was specifically wrong with the ferret that belonged to my friend (back in the Smiths Falls days), but I do know that he changed that creature somehow. Whenever we visited, his greeting to us would be "Watch your feet!" because Cheverra, his ferret, was allowed to run free for the most part, and she was exceptionally sly and vicious when it came to hiding under furniture, and biting stray toes. And even with this intensity in behaviour, I thought ferrets were the perfect pets. Occasionally my friend would put her on her back, and tickle her belly, and she'd ball up trying to destroy his hands, hating him, yet loving the tickling.

The ferret Charlotte and I spied was just a prince by comparison. All he wanted to do was play, and investigate the world. In particular he had an affinity for the warm nooks in Charlotte's coat, and shiny objects like our buttons. It was extremely hard to put him back in the cage. Charlotte almost bought him immediately, but for the fact that she owed her father money, and payday wasn't until the end of the week. So, fretfully, we put him back in his cage, and departed, hoping that no one else would think to buy him for awhile (this seemed unlikely... the clerk who showed him to us already owned three ferrets, and he thought this new ferret was such an affectionate and unique character that he was tempted to buy him as well). Charlotte wasn't sure about the practicalities of ferret-owning, such as their relatively long lifespan (seven years is quite the commitment for free-living transients like us), high cost, and distinct odour. We talked about it, and I was completely on the ferret's side of all this, having decided that I was in love with him, and that one of us must own him, and on this I was adamant. Still, time went on, and we both had many other concerns in our lives, and the ferret was almost forgotten about.

Occasionally, though, I would stop in, and see if he might still be there. I brought Broken by, and while she normally has a peculiar but firmly resolved aversion to the creatures (maintaining that they are too evil and psychotic to be all that cute), she saw him, the first time, balled up and sleeping, and thought he was precious. Last Thursday, we stopped by again, and he was conscious enough for us to play with him, so the clerk put him into Broken's arms and we marveled at his sweetness and biting abilities. I think this was essentially the defining moment where I committed myself towards this ferret in one way or another being given the home it deserved. Although I wanted to wait until I was better prepared to care for such a creature myself, it just seemed like no one else really deserved him. Few others could provide the same loving home that this creature needed -- who else but Charlotte, or myself, could conceivably love him properly? When we left, I decided that either Charlotte would bring him into her life, or somehow, in spite of my relative poverty, I would find the means to do this myself.

Charlotte joined us for coffee Friday night. The usual circle of House H'Tog (Caira, Mefisto, Jaysen, Lesleigh, Pixiegirl, Kincaid, and myself) met at this 24-hour cafe/laundromat type establishment with Charlotte and Broken to enjoy a fine evening of cappuccino and banter. I came out in my top hat, in a mood of rare sauciness (such states have been infrequent for me of late... I've been grouchy, but this is a story for another day), and as we ate our bagels, I coyly brought up said ferret to Charlotte. And while she'd been kind of apprehensive and uncertain on the subject, something in her changed gears that night. She'd just received her first credit card, virginal and awaiting purchases, and maybe my old Jedi Mind Trick finally worked. She was going shopping with her sister the next day.

Saturday night. Caira and Mefisto wanted me, Sulkor that I was, to join them for refreshing restaurant appetizers and National Trivia Network wackiness at the James Street Feed Company -- the rootinest, tootinest, seedy everyman bar/restaurant on Bank Street. Charlotte called, and while she was feeling ill and wanted to remain indoors that chill December evening, Caira snatched the phone and insisted that she come out with us as well. Caira is a very determined individual, as set on receiving love and attention as I am, but instead of getting moody or depressive, she gets assertive and demanding (some might say 'obnoxious,' but I fear her too much for words like that), and Charlotte (like any reasonable individual) found the unremitant cajoling to be quite motivational. She capitulated, and Caira passed the phone back to me. We agreed to be there for 7:30, and Charlotte, having things to attend to, would arrive at eight.

I found NTN to be rather interesting. Each person gets a console, with a dinky rubber antenna and a touchpad with an array of varying-function keys (the alphabet is there, for example), and you activate it, enter your name, and watch the TV screen at the front of the room as it presents you with trivia questions. The initial scoring is a thousand pounds for selecting the correct answer from the multiple-choice array provided. As the seconds tick on, the award drops, and eventually the screen displays hints (like some of the potential answers will vanish as the points fall, until at zero you get the answer). You can change your mind until zero is reached; the console only broadcasts your answer at that critical point, such that answering right away is beneficial because it scores highest, but if you find yourself in the wrong, or change your mind, you can still avoid losing points for the wrong answer. Victory is fleeting, because in the many categories provided, there are some questions you will know right away, and others leave you guessing (just like real multiple choice exams). I won one or two rounds, and found myself third or fourth place in others. But this game, like any game I play, I played to lose. I mean, I'm quite competitive naturally, like most people. Winning is the best thing ever, and in some games (particularly philosophy), I will never submit to defeat, but eternally pursue that goal where I can put a boot atop my bested opponent, and smugly shout, "I win!"
But I understand in many games that I just can't be the best all the time, so for my sanity I play to lose. If I win -- well, neat. However, I'm only really ever there to drink my cola, and nibble on my cheesecake, and banter like a smartass with my friends anyway, so if I get five thousand points instead of seven thousand points -- well, I'm still a smartie, and everyone still likes me, so the incentive for victory is reduced to little more than a function of pride (of which I have lots, but it's a kind of funny pride that has carefully arranged priorities).

Charlotte had a throat infection and was quickly losing her voice as the hours rolled onwards, however, so she regretfully got up to leave, and I offered to walk her home. This was cheerfully accepted, as Charlotte had made mention of a surprise which required me to drop by and visit her at home soon, so I promised to Caira and Mefisto that I would return once Charlotte was safely home, and we departed. The walk home allowed us to talk about my sulkiness of late, and her comparative happiness with life. It also allowed me to nag her about getting to a doctor, as she was quite hoarse and her voice dropped ever lower (I'm quite the medical nag. Pixiegirl is also suffering a throat infection of some sort, though more lymph-nodey than Charlotte's, and has decided she can just avoid seeing a doctor, as likely it will clear up. I always find it frustrating to deal with people who distrust medication like this, especially because of the irony they usually have to admit applies to their particular choice of chemical assistance. I love science. I love doctors. Not everything the medical profession has blessed us with is gold, but, really, you can't blame penicillin for the world's ills. My brother like this; he has a sort of "body is a temple" complex, which is understandable, but paradoxical, because while he never takes aspirin, he does drink, smoke, and abuse many chemicals I dare not mention, as if they were orange and cranberry juice constitutionals...).

So, we got to her building, and went upstairs. She made me stand in the hallway with my eyes closed, and by this point I had no doubts as to what awaited (I was actually fairly certain by the night before). Out came Charlotte, and as I opened my eyes, there was the lovely little ferret creature in her hands. Oh, but I was smitten with love for him. We sat down and enjoyed some herbal tea for the next while, and played with the ferret, and let him scamper about and chew at our feet. I was his tormenter and best friend; his belly was at my mercy the whole time I stayed, and my fingers were his salty, fleshy treats. There's something to the innocent fun of playing with an animal that really does raise one's spirits, and perhaps this is why I enjoyed this particular ferret so much. He's just a rascal, and you have to keep an eye on him almost constantly, but even though he takes off for dark corners on a whim, he always comes back for more wrestling and tickling. If I weren't already Charlotte's best friend, this acquisition would have tipped the balance. I can tell I'm going to be visiting constantly, playing with the as-yet unnamed creature that, simple as it is, can still get me to ramble for hours and hours like a proud crazy guy with an ant farm.

D e c e m b e r 9

Oh, before I go, just a last thought for Caira, who is my most violently inspiring fan, and will most likely be quite disappointed by the lack of my particular brand of self-loathing and self-pity today: I hope you know that of all the people in our house, I think you're the greatest, and your departure in January is going to be an impoverishing and tragic experience for all, but most of all for me. You must never think that you won't be loved or missed, in spite of whatever happens between now and then. You and Mefisto were the reason I came to feel at home here at all -- I don't actually know how long I'll remain here after you depart. My room and my tissues (and Broken's cigarettes) are yours for as long as you might ever need them. I hope we can make your final weeks here not so much 'memorable,' as simply more wonderful.

D e c e m b e r 10

Hi Moppets. So. Ahem.

What am I doing? One day to my birthday and I'm fixing to have it quiet. I'm fixing to hide under a large piece of furniture and not be coaxed out by cake or alcohol. I need a good, solid, sane birthday.

Listening to the radio this morning, I hear that a man was rescued from what ought to have been a very successful suicide. The police fished him out of the freezing river, after he had leapt off the overhanging bridge with a rope tied to his neck. Which snapped. The rope that is. He plunged right through the ice. The man was taken to a hospital and is "fine" now, but the remarkable thing, is that less than four days ago, he had to be rescued by the police for doing the exact same thing. I guess this is what we pay our policemen to do, and not to bait the issue of euthanasia, but if all evidence pointed to the fact that he really wanted to die, right now, fast... couldn't they have just looked the other way while he froze to death? I wonder if he was happy to be saved.

Hanging just isn't a good way to go. If I had to do it...I mean, if I really really felt the need to die, I think I'd have to throw myself off a precipice to escape being able to change my mind. Shotguns take more courage than I've got. I just can't imagine trying to hang yourself twice. I'd switch tactics just for the hell of it. I mean, you're going to die anyway, right? Make it big. They can't charge you with mischief when you're dead.

When Rob asked me to write a guest snivel, he told me to rant on about whatever it was that really had my dander up lately. Anything at all. Well, what's really got my dander up is the way that people relate to one another. Let's take my friends:

1.	Under most circumstances, Juniper is an easy-going gal. Put Juniper in a room with a man, and she'll spin circles around herself trying to impress him. If it doesn't work, she'll plunge into depression, the likes of which only repeated suicide attempts and Prozac can relieve.
2.	My friend Marigold, who is in a monogamous, committed relationship, feels the need to roam to other lovers, not because she is dissatisfied with the one she has, but because the temptation of knowing intimately as many people as she can on this earth is too great.
3.	My sweet Maeve sacrifices more of her life, time, and energy to her men than could possibly be warranted, but only to people who end up using her, resulting in depression.
4.	Langland, who once spent years' worth energy, time and money, supporting a suicidal girlfriend, married a woman, despite his continual, secret, infidelities.
5.	Frank would just like to drift out of this existence like a whisper in our heads. Frank is so repressed, if you suggested to him that maybe you could look at a woman with lust in your eyes, he'd faint dead away. Consequently, any woman he knows is evaluated in terms of how much he can deify her.
6.	Rob even (and in my world, the sun shines right out of Rob) falls in love with all the speed, passion and self-destructiveness of a falling star, which sometimes gets him love, sometimes get him friends, but mostly gets him all smashed up.

Me, I guess I could take it or leave it. I've reached the end of my rope with other people. You just can't afford to break your heart over everyone you meet, your whole life long, can you? Sure, 'indiscretions' are nice, but do you really have to ruin your life feeling guilty over them. Love may well be a chemical reaction designed to trigger the whole mating/ offspring cycle, but it's a chemical reaction we spend the majority of our lives hunting down. I want to find whoever it was that said that we were only meant to love one person and waggle my finger at them. Good on you if you manage to find that person who rings all your bells and brings the bluebirds out, singing in choral joy. Good on you if you know that the person you're with is the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. But also good on you if you can love (and I mean love not fuck) two people at once, or three, or many. Good on you if your heart is big enough to want to devote yourself that way. It will, however, bring you down. How do you choose? How to you make sure each person you're with doesn't feel neglected (because you have informed your paramours about each other, correct?)? Will you ever have enough time to make them feel adequately special? You've obviously got to hook up with like-minded people.

Life is a short, nasty, depressing joke, and there's no use denying ourselves what pleasure we can find in it. I've known so many people just ready to throw themselves off cliffs over a ruined love, and that's just tragic. I mean, they used to base great huge Tragic plays on that theme! It's hard not to want to live up to that ideal of making yourself suffer over the loss of love, but you've just got to realize that even if you don't want to go on, you can go on! You can, even if you want to make yourself completely miserable first.

So, I'm wondering about that guy in my city, who's thrown himself off a bridge twice now. I'm wondering why? I'm wondering what kind of psychological trouble could have caused the kind of depression or desperation needed to make him want to kill himself. And I'm wondering what, if anything it had to do with love. And if someone loved him a bit more, if he'd burn the rope, quit jumping off bridges, and just settle down, happy, and realize there are worse places to be.

All I want for my birthday is to be with someone I love. That's the best place to be of all.

Broken.

D e c e m b e r 11

This, of course, was the dream. The job prospects rumoured to be as plentiful in Alberta as able bodies were scarce; that lure of the rewarding danger of working the oil refineries, whose call to strapping young men could apparently be heard even from the sleepy, rural, backwater valley here in Ontario. Almost on a whim one night, my younger brother's three best friends decided that they wanted out of the rut that Smiths Falls embodies. They wanted out of the same old day-in, day-out monotony of work and beer and parties, with the same old people they saw everyday, growing older and growing dumber with each passing year. They had decided that their fortunes were to be made elsewhere, and all these pioneers needed was a fourth. This fourth would complete the team and allow the journey to come to pass. They immediately thought of my brother -- headstrong, adventurous, defiant rogue that he is. It only took him a moment of thinking. Well, several moments. He sat back in his big chair in the huge crime lair of a bedroom he and I shared until I moved to Ottawa, and fretted and mused, in the genetically programmed introspection cursed to compel all of the my kin. Then, he made his decision. For whatever reason, he'd been saving a big, fancy, Cuban cigar -- one of two that his girlfriend's mother had given him after a trip. It lent itself towards a special occasion -- a momentous decision; a firstborn child; a world war victory.

Twenty years old and equally tired of tedium, my brother lit that big boy up, and smoked it meaningfully. His friends smiled, and joined him in chemical celebrations. Their adventures were born.

They were to leave two weeks later -- November 1. In the meantime, the adventurers continued on at their respective jobs, earning as much final salary as possible to finance the voyages ahead. Their hopes were high, and in fact prospects did seem bright enough to warrant this. From all accounts, money was there to be taken out west, and the dream was further polished and honed to a bright and shiny, yet seemingly attainable, perfection. The plan was decidedly goal-oriented. After all, what is success if you can't come home home with it someday and impress all the people you left behind in pool halls and increasingly large-arsed sofas? Yes, the plan was to make lots of money. Gobs of it. Work like dogs, and stash the cash away, building up a cozy nest egg to finance a new, better life upon their triumphant return, allowing for the beginning of homesteads and ambitious self-reliance. Wings long folded up under mothers' roofs were stretching at long last, creaky from the osteoporosis of caffeine and sugar, but strong and, if tentative and uncertain, at least backed up with determination.

I received periodic updates as to their situation. With surprising duty and affection, my homesick brother called home as much as he could, updating mother and grandmother and brother alike with tales of his adventures. They had quickly settled themselves in, upon reaching Cold Lake, and one-by-one, they found work, all four of them, in various fields. Two gained employment on the oil rigs (paid to watch for any spark of a fire at watching posts), while my brother found work, ironically enough, at a furniture store not unlike the store he left behind in Smiths Falls. He did this on the weekends, and during the weeks landed gainful employment with a construction business. The final member found work in construction as well, and with starvation chased away and self-reliance assured, the story could have gone on like this endlessly. Of course, it most assuredly did not.
Although there is a certain contempt they all felt for their hometown, it nevertheless had a distinct appeal. Like crime figures, or football heroes, my brother and his friends were part of the social elite. They had connections everywhere, for everything, with everyone. Nothing happened without them -- at least, nothing worth happening (starkly in contrast to my own youth in that city, where most things happened with or without me, and my friends, geniuses and go-getters though they might be, had little ties to that town. We all left, without looking back, not particularly missing it; not particularly missed).

Of course, they quickly made new friends. Even I have that socially outgoing need for attention now, though my younger brother makes it his lifestyle. He needs to be involved in everything. These new friends only served to remind them of the comrades left behind, however, and the dreadful pull of homesickness increased. Increasingly, the travelers found themselves painted a dull shade of the colour miserable. A week or two ago, I heard that they were simply working to pull all the resources together they could to pack up, and come home. Life lessons achieved, goals reached, they wanted to be home again. Rich and famous could, frankly, wait. And I understood this quite well. I'm a terrible homebody. I love my home in Ottawa, and my friends here, and I'd be tremendously reluctant to leave for any reason without them. The call of home is always strong when I'm away. It's where I'm happiest, and most secure. Nevertheless, it was a shame they were so unhappy, and wanted so badly to cash in that dream of theirs, and return humbly, even with a hero's welcome from friends left behind. Last night I found out that December the thirteenth was the date set for the return. Christmas is fast coming now, and it's possibly the worst time to be away from what you think of as your home. It wasn't a visit or a dalliance. This was a strategic regrouping -- fall back, and dig in.

For all except, shockingly, my brother. I found out last night that he has stubbornly refused to leave Alberta. His friends are leaving him behind, reluctantly I'm sure, but at present he simply will not join them.

The explanation I received is that he has decided that he hasn't yet found what he left home to discover in the first place. My younger brother left on a journey of independence and self-discovery, and his goals are not yet satisfied. Right now he's working in the construction of an airport, and finds himself mystified and enamoured with the jumbo jets not far from his assignment. At present, though he desperately wishes he could visit home for Christmas, he is stuck where he is -- as much through circumstance as the obstinate digging-in of his boots. For him, this is the way it must be. Home has its allure, but it isn't ready for him yet. He still understands what it means to be in Smiths Falls. He knows how small it is, even if it is huge compared to the tiny town he's made his home for the time being. He knows it will be waiting for him; and he knows that he cannot return home until he has met his own personal goals -- until he can come back, and feel proud of himself, and be triumphant and independent. I think, even if he's lonely, the world is at once larger and smaller to him now. He's seen more of it, and he knows more about how life really works. The prodigal son is made aware of how precarious our possessions and comforts really are balanced against the harsh ledge of reality. Mom's refrigerator is a thousand miles away.

I must confess, I am fiercely proud of my younger brother right now. I think he's gone a long way towards growing up, as I myself have in this past year. Self-sufficience, independence, and pride are important to a human being. There is a stoic sense of almost pigheaded pride that exists in all four of the children of our mother and father. Our father in particular was a man of unusual character and determination. In spite of his genius, sentimentality and affection, he was rigid and stubborn and determined. He was a journalist for the CBC, an inventor, a poet, and a hardass. One night he was pulled into the back of an RCMP car and beat up for being a suspected Communist; our phone was tapped for a long time, and he had been doing a lot of filming abroad in troubled countries. And when my older brother was born, he was in Toronto, chasing after, and possibly beating up, someone who owed him a tremendous sum of money. Even I, with my squishiness, have moments fired by my father's will. However, even if I was my father's favourite (he had a clear favourite, to the never-ending chagrin of my older siblings, who were forced on many occasions to go rooting through ditches to bring back frogs for my delight, after a stern look from my father), my younger brother carries far more of his tempered spirit around.

I don't know how long he plans to remain where he is, but it makes me extremely confident in his success in life that, for the moment, it's where he insists upon being.

D e c e m b e r 12

We returned home to a late night of prancing about with the housemates, inspecting our new Laundry Room of the Damned, which is located in this teeny mystery space with hundreds of miscellaneous pipes protruding into and out of ceilings and walls like the hair of a gorgon. For some reason, Civilization (by Sid Meier, a game of world domination) was the game of the house last night, so Broken played it in my room, while next door Kincaid and three other people played Civ 2. Meanwhile, I became backrub boy again, and between Caira and Pixiegirl, spent an hour and a half giving elaborate massages. By that point, it was 2:40 in the morning, which is precisely when I went to bed, happy and comfy and smelling faintly of chocolate and love, of which both seemed to be around in abundance.

Now, however, I'm off to work for the Man. This is just the way it has to be, because I likes me the money I makes while slaving for Whitey. Stay tuned for further adventures this weekend, and have a splendid Friday. Mine promises to be not nearly so nice as my Thursday, but at least I have the memories to fall back on.

D e c e m b e r 13

Occasionally, I have to sort of point this out, in a sort of 'warm fuzzy,' and affirmative way; partially as a means of getting myself out of bed at seven o'clock each Friday morning when there are warm blankets, and possibly even warm bodies, to lure me back into my kooky bed. I find that when you wake up and you see a snowstorm brewing outside, that all you really want to do is appreciate its beauty and integrity from the confines of my gigantic bay window, preferably while sleeping through the first several hours. As much as I enjoy my large (well, large considering the pittance of hours I work each month) paychecks, there are times where they would not quite be enough to rouse me from my slumber were I anticipating eight hours at any other sort of gainful employment; say in the service sector, where smiles and appearances are all-encompassing. That being so, I must say that the thought of working at my job, stationed comfortably (ensconced, you might say) in my office, surrounded by the reeking corpses of millions of meticulously preserved insects (the formaldehyde is a distinct perfume that follows me home at the end of each workday) will, in fact, get me into the shower and some reasonably fresh clothes.

I love my job.

The coolest part about my job is my office. The coolest part of my office is the view of the helipad. I'm not sure why the Central Experimental Farm warrants a helicopter landing site, but for whatever reasons, one does, in fact, exist, and the helicopter arrives, and subsequently takes off (bound for locations unknown) at least once a day. Further aspects pertaining to the relative coolness of my office include its size, decor, and the big shiny computer (mine!) and the big shiny telephone (mine! If you call and ask for me, apparently I'm who you'll get). I mean, the office isn't exactly mine. I don't think, as a technical-operations student boy, that I deserve an office as big (or, in fact, an office), but it is, for the moment, allocated to me (perhaps until such a time as they find someone to replace the man whose position warranted the office for twenty or thirty years, then died a year and a half ago... I mean, he was a very cool man. An exceedingly intelligent, thus depressive, entomologist and philosopher. I probably would have liked him immensely; they seem to be delaying in filling his shoes. They may be difficult shoes to fill). It's filled with specimen cases and wooden cabinets filled with little drawers filled with index cards. There are instruments of varying design and purpose (most involved in doing precise things to insects), shelves galore, and all number of musty books and journals dating back through the latter half of this century.

Presently, there are mealworms growing in my office. At least I know why. There's this pan of some habitat suspension, that resembles sawdust, covered with a tightly sealed mesh screen. Through this screen you can closely see an impressively large number of bugs creepy-crawling about, immersed in their business, gradually maturing and awaiting their destiny. This destiny involves digestion, unfortunately. Being digested, I should clarify. Several people in our section apparently have the sort of pet, like iguanas, which enjoy such treats, so they got a colony of mealworms started; and now it's in my office, growing and waiting. But in a detached way, they're kind of cute. I mean, all they do is rustle and jostle about, staying far, far out of my way (such that I didn't even notice them until lunchtime; it's rather crowded in my office... books are being inventoried to be sent to other departments and universities, so they don't really reside neatly on the shelves the way they used to), and I don't have problem with insects in general -- especially confined insects. Yesterday was particularly fun just because I was feeling energetic (and caffeinated; strongly, strongly caffeinated), and they renewed my contract until the end of March (which most likely means I'll have rewarding employment in the summer, as well), and I was engaged in fun tasks requiring me to putter around with Adobe Photoshop (image manipulation is my bread and butter), which to me is exactly like playing.

Yesterday felt like work is supposed to. I took my coffee breaks with characteristic lateness (such things are meant for when I accomplish tasks... I'm too fussy to want to interrupt what I'm working on for the mere satisfaction of stretching my legs; even if coffee is the net result). I irritably acclimatized to the reality of Windows 95 (installed just that week on my PC). It was certainly necessary (that computer is being transferred to someone else; apparently I get something new and shiny and year 2000 compliant, but it was running 3.1, because after my predecessor passed away, his office was left derelict, and upgrades weren't necessary), but it was only installed in the sense that it worked -- not in the sense that it worked the way I wanted it to, or with the software I had running. Also, Windows 3.1 on a Pentium 75 with sixteen megabytes of RAM simply flies -- however, Windows 95 on said Pentium 75 only runs well. The process of functioning is considerably gummier and requires way more swap file time than I liked (it's faster than my computer, but I have a 386, and even it runs Netscape about as well as the new configuration on my PC at work does).

I love my job. I hate library work. Occasionally I must do research in either the main library (in a gigantor building, where the Minister of Agriculture has his office) a five minute walk away or our upstairs library; in either case, it involves me doing a lot of photocopying and CD-ROM indexing, and as much as I will happily perform any task given to me (being useful is more important to me than being entertained), it has no appeal compared to the security blanket of my office. In my office yesterday, I did nothing even resembling library work. I spent the second half of my day image mapping -- in a way, tedious (because I'm retracing all the steps I made this summer. All the work I did this summer was essentially scrapped, because the decision was made that the images I labeled should be one hundred pixels wider -- luckily for me, instead of having to relabel each image, I only needed to scale them up and manually sharpen them... the difference between two days and two months of work. Now I have to reconfigure all the image maps, which are set up for the original, smaller, graphics), but allowing for a pleasant routine, where I can sip coffee, resize little boxes, maybe indulge myself in a phone call, and even check my e-mail (which I did yesterday successfully for the first time ever. Reconfiguring the computer for a Windows 95 network connection allowed me to telnet out to my trusty FreeNet account).

I love my job. It fulfills me in so many ways. I wasn't really a productive member of society for most of my life, but this particular means of doing so really does make me feel accomplished and worthwhile. It doesn't really matter what you do, so long as you do something, but being paid for it helps. And being treated like an important person with autonomy helps especially. I was reading over my new contract, and in the space where they justify the amount of money allocated towards my employment, it says "... has demonstrated skill in accomplishing the tasks outlined, does not require training, and the quality of his work is exceptional." I love being wanted.

And even bugs need me sometimes.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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