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Thursday, June 10, 2004

One Last Thing Before I Go to Bed 

So, I had this plan today to sit around and relax and not do anything stressful or exciting.



I had made up my mind to not go out tonight. Then I talked to a friend who wanted to go and have beer. I was pretty staunch about my staying home, but he wasn't very influential and didn't really try to change my mind. Then, well then, there was another persuasion attempt, and lo and behold that one worked. So I went to Alcazar for a cocktail. Just one. At 10 pm. And I promised myself I would come home before the last underground so I wouldn't feel like taking a taxi and spending useless money. Amazingly, I got home on the last tram. Well done me. But the reason to come home at a decent hour was to get some sleep, at the normal (or when the rest of the world considers normal) time. And now it's nearly 3 goddamn 30 in the morning.

I hate the internet. I didn't need to read a bunch of news articles or check out the latest gaming news on a bunch of different sites. I didn't need to sit and ponder just who to send GMail invitations to. I didn't need to have any cake, either. But I did all of that! Why? Well because the extent of my strong willed behavior had been used up for the day. There's a quota, you see. I can only be strong willed to a certain degree everyday. If I use all of it up at once, well, I'm screwed for the rest of the day! The worst bit, really, is that I thought to myself when I got home that it would be about time to blog something. And that's the reason I opened my laptop. Well not the only reason. I was wondering if I might see my brother or someone else online. Ya never know. It could've happened. So I guess all the surfing was wasting time to see if someone I wanted to talk to would show up in my contact list before I got too sleepy. And all the while I was promising myself to start a blog so that I wouldn't be uselessly tired.


I'm exhausted. But why? I didn't really do well... anything today.

To move on to something of less babbling quality... I had another talk with another friend last night about a problem. But it was less of a psychology lesson, thankfully. Although I seem to have gotten pretty good at the whole psychology lesson giving talks lately. There hasn't been much neurology talk lately. But I did slip in a story about John Watson and Little Albert a couple of nights ago. I forgot Rosalie's name during the storytelling, but I'm sure the point was still made even without her name being included. Because the wiki page makes Watson and Rayner out to be vicious, here's the article in their own words. And here's the behaviorism theory from the beginning.

Would it please, for fuck's sake, stop raining? PLEASE! It's mid June. This is now completely out of hand. I wouldn't say that unless it was really true. Really. Rain in the Summer in Vienna isn't shocking. It's not out of place. But it was probably something like 15 degrees outside today. And not sunny. It's summer. That's not summer temperatures! It wasn't even partly cloudy today. It was just cloudy. (Well, that's what it looked like from inside my flat, anyways.)

So when I went for my one drink tonight, we had a quick conversation about family reunions. I haven't been to one of those in ages. I think I was about 14 or so when I went to the last one. Maybe even 10 or 12. I just remember getting lost on the way there. I was with my two cousins and my cousin's wife. We stopped to get chips. I got a bag of pretzels. And we were in my cousin's IROC Z. I remember something to do with a not living animal on the road. But I can't remember exactly if my cousin killed something or if it was already injured. And then I remember stopping at a really interesting small general store on the side of some random two lane road and using the pay phone to call ... someone ... for directions. The directions didn't help. And we were in Minnesota. And everyone in the car lived in either California or Oklahoma, so we were mostly out of luck until we stopped at a gas station and got some much better directions for the station attendant.

The reunion was at someone's farm. Apparently, I am somehow related to the owner of that house and farm, but dammed if I can remember anyone who was there besides my cousins, my two brothers, my uncles and one of my mom's aunts - Bertha, if you must know. Yes, I have a great aunt named Bertha. Yes, her siblings called her Bird Shit when she was little. All of my relatives on my mom's side of the family have nicknames. I didn't know my grandma's name wasn't Honey until I was about 10. And now I can't remember my mom's nickname (well the one that her family called her anyways... her school friends called her Soggy.). I'll have to ask her when she gets into town. I can't remember if my great uncle Curly actually ever had curly hair. I'd suspect so. I imagine that my Uncle Zeke (not his real name, but the only name I've ever called him...) was happier when the entire family started calling him Zeke instead of Snookie when he was 16. About 15 years ago, Bertha was still calling her nephew Snookie though. Poor chap.

Enough rambling. It's sleeping time.

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