Cricket

Nuts to Yaris day.

I spent the last two days at work researching cricket for no reason. It's the most confusing sport ever, and I decided to deconfusify myself. Now it's no longer confusing; it's just boring.

I assume none of you know what cricket's about, so I'll explain it to you. There's this field, and all the action is on one little strip (called the pitch) in the middle of the field. On the pitch there's a dude who throws the ball (though he's not allowed to throw it as normal people throw; he can't bend his elbow), a dude who tries to hit it, a dude who catches it if the batter misses, and another dude who's just there to spice things up. The batter's, or batsman's, fate depends on whether or not the ball (or anything else, really) can knock loose a plank or two that's resting on the poles behind him. If those planks go, the batsman is out. And this goes on until ten batters of the eleven-person team are out. Then the next team is up and goes ten batters.

In traditional cricket, they go through this rotation twice, each team getting the ten-batter round, and it takes up to five days. Five days for one game. And I thought baseball was boring.

Yaris Day!

I decided that today I'm only going to post about my pal Yaris. Here's one of our recent conversations.

Unspar: Did you see that hailstorm last night, Yaris?
Yaris: Yeah, I was in it.
Unspar: Your flawless body doesn't show it.
Yaris: Oh stop.
Unspar: No, I'm serious. Not a dent or a scratch to be seen.
Yaris: (blushing) It's the reinforced steel, really.
Unspar: You're too modest.
Yaris: You flatter me.
Unspar: So what do you wanna do tonight?
Yaris: Let's go ice skating!
Unspar: Haha!
Yaris: What?
Unspar: You'll break the lake!
Yaris: Are you saying I'm fat?
Unspar: Of course not, Yaris.
Yaris: I'm fat.
Unspar: No, every car out there is fatter than you.
Yaris: The Volkswagens are thinner.
Unspar: Uh...
Yaris: And prettier.
Unspar: Well, they do have nice shapes.
Yaris: (starts crying)
Unspar: It's OK, Yaris, it's OK. Don't cry.
Yaris: Maybe we're moving too fast.
Unspar: But it's normal to go 5 over the limit.
Yaris: They make those limits for a reason, you know.
Unspar: C'mon, Yaris. I can't drive 55!
Yaris: Too bad, cuz I'm not going over 20.
Unspar: 20?! Aw shucks!
Yaris: If you don't like it, you don't have to drive me at all.
Unspar: But you get such excellent gas mileage.

Yaris

Apparently, many of you have been wondering what a Yaris is. If the preceding post answered that question, you're probably wondering what's going on with this Yaris obsession.

So yeah, Yaris is a car. It's not a very special car. It's just really cheap and gets good gas mileage. That is Yaris.

Now behind my love for Yaris. It started out with cautious interest--I liked that it was cheap and got good gas mileage. But after that fake conversation I had with it, I realized two things. One: Yaris is a great word, and Two: Yaris is a great conversation partner with potentially a lot of great things to say. I even began to think that Yaris was a great friend. And this blossomed into what may become one of the most famous love stories the world will ever know.

I can't explain it; these things just happen. I get swept up in some random idea until it turns into something I don't understand and can't control. But that's love, I guess.

#200

Man, I was planning on whining about all the regular stuff I always whine about on here, then I find out this is post #200 and I need to do something special. Crap.

To hell with special. I tried to make a picture of the "Ben Robison Rainbow," but stupid MS Paint kept warping the colors of everything. Some rainbow to have the wrong colors.

Anyway, I made a different picture instead. I give you "Keanu Driving a Yaris!"



It's better when it's bigger. Click on it.

The Food of Love

I'm tired of rock music. It no longer thrills me. So today on the drive to work I listened to classical. In case you didn't know it, Beethoven rules. Actually, he rulz. I mean RULZ. And so you know I'm not a total poseur ("I like classical because I like Beethoven, blah blah blah"), I'm planning on listening to Rimsky-Korsakov on the way home.

A note for those of you who want to buy me things for no reason: buy me some Debussy.

An observation made while listening to classical music: I find it ironic that the most beautiful music is made (for the most part) by Germans and Russians. And if you're sensitive to cultural stereotypes, translate "ironic" as "interesting."

A Day As Long and Glorious As Eternity

Today, for the first time ever in the history of my time at Cigna (and I realize I say that a lot, but excuse what may seem like hyperbole), I worked the entire day. Or almost. 8:30-4:30, so I fell a half hour short. That's still seven hours, though. Pretty impressive, huh?

I had three critical incidents, all of which took forever. I made at least 20 calls on each case, left tons of messages, and still dealt primarily with refusals all day. I struck out--meaning I couldn't find someone--on my first case ever today. To say the least, it was trying.

Let me tell ya, if it wasn't for prayer, grace, God, etc., this day would have been unbearable. This morning I was reminded about how suffering produces endurance, and now I know how. Suffering doesn't produce endurance because it wears on us but because we struggle against it and defeat it. Granted, this was just a struggle to finish a meaningless task, but it taught me that suffering passively is pointless. I need to engage in it if I want to go anywhere.

For those of you who prefer funspar...
Coming Soon: More Conversations with Yaris!
Unspar: Will you marry me, Yaris?
Yaris: I was just going to ask you the same question!

What will they come up with next?

My Conversation with the New Toyota Yaris

Unspar: You're pretty cheap.
Yaris: Yes!
Unspar: And you get great gas mileage.
Yaris: Yes!
Unspar: So what's the catch?
Yaris: Catch?
Unspar: Yeah. What's the deal?
Yaris: There's no deal. I'm just awesome!
Unspar: Nuh-uh.
Yaris: Whaddaya mean?
Unspar: I don't buy it.
Yaris: C'mon! Please? I'm so affordable!
Unspar: Only if you tell me the truth.
Yaris: Please don't make me.
Unspar: Fine. I'm leaving.
Yaris: No wait! I'll tell you...but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.
Unspar: Out with it.
Yaris: I'm manufactured in sweatshops...by kittens.
Unspar: I knew it!
Yaris: I'm not done. Also, when the kittens die from exhaustion, the men throw their corpses into the fire that powers the assembly line. And they use kitten skins to make the seats.
Unspar: Yikes.
Yaris: I'm sorry.
Unspar: No, it's OK.
Yaris: It's OK?
Unspar: I don't like cats.
Yaris: Hooray!

Should I Really Be Doing This on a Sunday?

Just now--even as I write this, perhaps--I was reading quotes from the popular film The Notebook. We'll get to the implications of that in a second, but first I wanna talk about the profound life lessons this movie apparently has to offer.

Lesson #1: Life is funny sometimes.
Lesson #2: Love is awesome.
Lesson #3: Love letters, however, are stupid.
Lesson #4: Girls can't make decisions.

There's nothing like a love story to make me think love stories are dumb. Maybe someday I'll fall in love and learn the real lesson. But for now, sarcasm.

Utlimately, though, I'm a sucker. I'm a two dollar sucker to the core. That's why I'm going to say the thing that you're about to read. I've been thinking it for a while, so I'll just come out with it: I want to see this movie.

Let Me Tell You About a Man Called Jerkface

Last night I went to see a movie, but that's beside the point. Before the movie, me and my buddy Dan were talking as a pair of people is apt to do before a movie, and some guy turns around and asks us to be quiet. His near-exact words were, "Could you guys keep it down? We can hardly hear what's going on now. Thanks."

Let me set the scene for you a little more clearly. The movie advertisers had just finished showing us sensationalized blurbs on United 93 and The Sentinel, and a Coca Cola ad was just getting started. It was not necessary to be able to hear this particular Coca Cola. This was all before the previews.

There are a few things I would have liked to say to this guy.
1) We are watching advertisements. You don't need to hear advertisements.
2) The movie will be louder than the ads. You will have no problem hearing the movie.
3) We, like most movie patrons, plan to talk before the film begins, but we will cease our conversation once the film begins because we came to watch it, not talk through it.

Unfortunately, my jaw had dropped too far open, and I was unable to reply. It didn't really matter, though, because we resumed our conversation five seconds later. Because we are Americans.

Keanu, My Hero

Just when I think I've seen the best of Keanu Reeves, I realize that I haven't seen nearly enough. Thankfully, Sweet November was on television this morning, and I got to see and hear one of the greatest things to grace the silver screen in its century of existence.

Keanu Reeves sings.

It was so sublimely awful, I may have to buy the movie.

I Will Never Watch The OC Again

If you, the person reading this, have not seen The OC, you don't need to read on. From this point on, I will refer to characters and storylines you won't be familiar with, so it probably won't make any sense. Then again, nonsense is fun, so it might be worth a try.

Kirsten Cohen is drinking again, and I will not stand for it. It's bad enough to make her an alcoholic in the first place, but a relapse? Definitely not cool, OC. I like my Kirsten Cohens honorable, loving, beautiful (in a mom way), and sober. This is the last straw. We're through, OC.

There's a new Mexico?

There's occasionally a bright moment that makes this job not unbearable. I spend most of the day overhearing my co-cube monkey describing how secure email works, but for a three-second reprieve, there's New Mexico.

I've enjoyed speaking to the few New Mexicans I've spoken to here, but it's never crossed the line to making me smile until now. A caller from New Mexico, in complimenting one of our employees, said that we at Cigna Behavioral Health are "gooder than gold."

I wish I could come up with phrases like that.

An Interesting Theory

So I'm hanging out doing what I usually do at work--nothing--when I discover an interesting idea posited by someone I don't know and have probably never met. His name is Kevin Sawyer, and for a while I thought he was funny until I discovered he mostly wrote about politics. But what caught my eye was this:

Is there a direct correlation between the consonant/vowel ratio in a person's name and the extent to which I respect that person?

An interesting idea, and I figure this was worth exploring in greater depth.

Let's take a handful of people and look at their consonant percentage:

Mohandas Gandhi = 65%
Emily Dickinson = 61%
Josef Stalin = 63%
Claude Monet = 54%
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart = 62%
Mike Jones = 55%
Ted Danson = 67%
Marie Curie = 40%
Gustav Klimt = 73%
Thomas Jefferson = 67%

Hmm...inconclusive. Let's try people I know.

Christine Grue = 61%
Dan Robison = 60%
Mark Waller = 70%
Dan Marfield = 63%
Bunkhuon Chhun = 69%
Rachel Shubatt = 71%
Sarah Goodspeed = 57%
Sara Daly = 56%
Konstantin Davydov = 68%
William Hines = 58%
Flipper = 71%

Hmm...still don't get it. Let's rank them highest consonant ratio to lowest.

1. Gustav Klimt
2. Rachel Shubatt
3. Flipper
4. Mark Waller
5. Bunkhuon Chhun
6. K-Pax
7. Thomas Jefferson
8. Ted Danson
9. Mohandas Gandhi
10. Dan Marfield
11. Josef Stalin
12. Mozart
13. Christine Grue
14. Emily Dickinson
15. Dan Robison
16. William Hines
17. Sarah Goodspeed
18. Sara Daly
19. Mike Jones
20. Claude Monet
21. Marie Curie

Aha! At last I understand! These rankings prove without question that this was an enormous waste of my time.

Let's Not Get Serious

"I've been listening to Democracy Today or whatever the hell that public radio talk show is called. Democracy Now? Despotism Now?"
"Haha."
"But seriously, they said something the other day that flat out stupefied me. I don't remember what it was exactly, but it was something about the government and the economy."
"The Govconomy?"
"Hahahahahahaha."
"Hahahahaha."
"That's the funniest thing I've ever heard."
"I know."

For Emily

Last night I played Scrabble with my dad. There's a long standing tradition in the Robison family of being extremely competitive in Scrabble, especially considering we're hardly competitive with anyone else.*

This particular match was a bout for the ages. By the second round, I was behind by 20. By the third round, I was behind by 40. By the fourth or fifth, my dad used all his letters and earned a 120 point lead, seemingly ending the game. However, it turned out that his all-letters word was not a word after all (we thought he spelled "crawlers," but he only spelled "crawles"), though neither of us noticed it until his following turn, and that knocked 79 points off his score. Then the tide turned four rounds before the end of the game when I dropped "decade" on a triple word score and took a 20-some point lead that would last the remainder of the game.

I hate it, but it seems that my crushing blows are always dealt on words I didn't even know existed. This time, I was delivered by the word "od." It was the hinge on which "decade" swung, but I had to look it up in the dictionary to confirm its realness. It doesn't appear in dictionary.com, but it's all too prominent in some American Standard Whatever Dictionary. The definition: a hypothetical substance that has something to do with something or other. I'm sorry, I don't have the dictionary in front of me. But it's real, I swear.



*This is not to say that I am undefeated or that I consistently crush everyone. I have made mistakes as great as saying "create" is not a word and pronouncing it "creet," as well as losing disastrously to a team of three friends because Will and I had somewhere around six consonants for the entire game. But in general, the Robisons are a Scrabble force of epic proportions.

Punched in the Mouth and Punched in the Tummy

Today I ate a restaurant called Punch. Maybe you've heard of it. It's like Noodles but for Pizza. I have to say it was delicious, but I don't know why they call it Punch.

The case for being called Punch
Exhibit A: They do not serve punch.
Exhibit B: No one is allowed to punch anyone.
Exhibit C: The awesomeness of the food is not comparable to being punched in the tasting and digesting areas.
Exhibit D: They do, however, have punch cards for frequent customers. Buy five pizzas, get one free!

Decision: Do not call it Punch.

In Trying to Get Free, They Learned They Were Free All Along

I'm back to working on the bank robberies and deaths. That's right, it's business as usual. It sucks. In the past two days, we've done nearly 20 incidents. That's more than a lot. On one hand, it's nice to be busy; on another less idiotic hand, I miss doing nothing.

I bemoan my constant dissatisfaction. I hate taking messages because it's demeaning, but I hate doing anything else because it's work. I also hate hating. If I hate my hate, do I cease to exist? Nonexistence would be the easy solution, but alas, I probably wouldn't go for it. It's too convenient.

Really it's not that bad. Critical incident work is more enjoyable, and it makes me feel like I have more energy, and those are things I can appreciate. But it's hard to phrase my contentment in a witty way, so complaining is more fun.

Homeless

I know there are a few of you readers of my blog who were out on the homeless outreach yesterday, and I know there are a few of you who weren't. For all of you, I just discovered the site with Wounded Shield's art. It's pretty cool.

Wounded Shield, also called Dennis, I think, is a homeless Native American. I met him yesterday, and I think some people met him before. He's a great guy, and I'm looking forward to seeing him again. I'm really worried about his drinking, though; when I asked him why he gets drunk, he said it's better than jumping off a bridge. He later told us he wouldn't do that because he was happy to know that people cared about him, but still. So if any of you are prayer-inclined, please pray for him.

Wrong

I just noticed something. My blogger profile says my zodiac year is the Year of the Dog. This is INCORRECT. I was born in the Year of the Boar. Somebody effed up big time, and I won't rest til his or her body lies cold (or less warm than usual) at my feet.

The Sandwich Thieves Return

Today my sandwich was stolen for the second time this week. Just the sandwich.

When this happened before, I would ask myself, "WHY???" But now I've moved on from grief to revenge.

My plan is to make a fake lunch, complete with all the foods I regularly have, including a sandwich. However, this sandwich will be diabolical because I will soak the sandwich meat in a bowl of urine for, oh, say a week. The sandwich stealer will never steal another sandwich again.

Of course, there's always the problem of backlash. Perhaps they'll start stealing every sandwich I make out of spite. Or maybe they'll pee all over every brown bag. Or maybe I'll just hurt someone who didn't deserve it (pff...whatever).

Urine sandwich.

New Shoes Blues

I just got new shoes last night, and I'm thinking they're pretty sweet, but I get to work today only to discover that everyone--that's right, everyone--is wearing exactly the same shoes as me. That's not fair. Nor does it make any sense.

This is Ennui

My boredom has reached new, nearly transcendant levels. I am now so bored with this job that I'm bored with my lunch hour. I left my lunch early today because I was bored. I got bored with my escape from work, which is like getting bored with not being bored. How does that happen?

One good thing, though: I'm not bored enough to go psychotic and start committing violent crimes.

Do My Coworkers Read My Blog?

If you are my coworker and you are reading this, come over and say, "The ducks are loose. We must regain the ducks."

On a more observational note, a coworker just asked me if I knew there was a Jewish holiday this week. I casually replied that no, I did not know that (though if I had waited a second before I spoke, I would have said yes, I did know that).

Further thought on this topic gave me pause. Why did he ask me that? Is it because I look Jewish? I've heard from several people that I do. I don't deny it, and I'm only slightly offended.

Perhaps this explains why I've always been more opposed to Jewish stereotypes than any others. Because in a way, they're my people too. But who isn't, I guess.

Thoughts upon Being Captured by Pygmies near the Amazon River

I really don't think they'll kill me. They're too short to kill people. Like the Ewoks. But the Ewoks were about to kill Han and Chewie and Luke. Hmmm. I should be able to take them, though. I'm outnumbered, sure, but one of me equals probably three of them. I could be kicking two of them, one foot per pygmy, while I punch another one. And the advantage of kicking is that I could probably launch them a few feet. Create some running room. But what if they have poison darts? Then I'm screwed. Though I'm surprised they didn't use them to begin with. Hey, I wonder if they've ever seen that Indiana Jones movie with the darts and the plane...which one was that? Man, I could sure go for some popcorn right now.

I'm Going Blind

I've noticed lately how a whole lot of my eyelashes are falling out. Not so many that it looks like I don't have any, but enough that if I try to pull some, they come out. I've seen them on my bathroom sink and my pillow. It's happening. My eyes are going bald.

I think I'd go blind without eyelashes. I'd have nothing to prevent myself from going blind. And I think I'd prefer to be blind if I didn't have eyelashes. I wouldn't want to see my hideous bald lids in the mirror.

The Problem With Flying Cars

The problem with flying cars is fuel efficiency. From what I understand, they get about .125 nautical miles to the gallon. I'm pretty sure we'd have flying cars by now if we had an alternate fuel. I mean, the mechanics are probably simple enough, and we've got light enough materials now that the cars could get off the ground. We just need more efficient fuel. If I was an engineer, I'd be all over this, but alas, I'm just an idea man. And I have no money. So I'm selling this idea. Shall we start the bidding at, say, 50 million dollars?

Ben Trivia

I spent the last really long time collecting bits of information about myself as presented on my blog and livejournal. Maybe you’ll learn something, but probably you won’t.

In two years Ben has won nine livejournal awards. Three of those were shared with Dan Waller. He has been nominated 52 times.

Ok...so then I just decided to browse around previous funny entries and came up with no more trivia. I must leave you with nothing but my livejournal award statistics.

Today is Awesome

Of the four calls I've taken today, two of them hung up on me. That means I'm doing half as much work as I'm getting credit for. I'm truly living the American Dream.

Considering My 200th Post, 25 Posts in Advance

I need to start coming up with ideas for post #200. My first thought was to make a list of 200 things. My second thought was to make a second list of 100 things. But I'm pretty sure those won't spread the mustard.

The Robots Are Clones, Part 2

My job took another step closer to becoming Initech today. They put up a banner. This banner reads, "There is no such thing as a misdirected call."

This is part of the "No misdirected call" campaign, which is one of the stupidest things I've ever encountered. The campaign requires that we transfer every call to where it's supposed to go, which, aside from being common sense, we've already been doing forever.

But the thing that really gets me about this sign is that it is factually incorrect. There is indeed such a thing as a misdirected call. If someone calls us with a question about their bank account (happens often), they have not reached the right place. Their call is misdirected. It is a misdirected call.

I'm now expecting this campaign to replace the term "misdirected call" with some new moronic buzzword. Once that happens, I'm out the window.

The Robots Are Clones

As I started writing this post, all the phones went out. This is a call center, and our phones are not working.

A few people noticed, then a few more, then the whole floor burst out in what sounded like a panic. Chaos. My comment: "This is hilarious!"

I think we ought to party.

Now they're back. Crap. Oh well, best 8 minutes I've ever had at this job.

A Fun Thing

I stole this from Nicole, and since I'm bored at work and it was particularly fun (fun, not funny), I filled it out. And now you're about to read it.

1) My uncle once: accidentally sprayed whipped cream in my face when I was little. Made me hate whipped cream for a really long time.
2) Never again in my life: will I try to think of a serious answer to this question. But even that I can’t promise.
3) When I was five: my brother was two.
4) High School: is actually something that I can feel nostalgic about without feeling paranoid or surreal.
5) I will never forget: nothing because it’s very likely there’s nothing I’ll be able to remember forever.
6) I once met: Davey von Bohelen.
7) There's this girl I know who: put soap something in the John Deere fountain to see if it would overflow. Three times.
8) Once, at a bar: a whole bunch of friends and I sang “What’s Goin’ On?” by Marvin Gaye. Not karaoke. Best bar experience ever.
9) By noon I'm usually: hungry and wishing I didn’t work here.
10) Last night I: saw Mates of State with Maria Taylor and Hockey Night.
11) If I had only: called that girl Stephanie who talked to me on the Greyhound that night back to Madison after Sara and I broke up. If I have any regret, that’s it. Though it probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway.
12) Next time I go to church, I will: not wear a jacket.
14) What worries me most: is anything I pay close attention to for a prolonged period of time, especially what I’m going to do once I quit office jobs forever.
15) When I turn my head right, I see: a set of those stackable inboxes and my Cigna nalgene bottle.
16) When I turn my head left, I see: another set of those stackable inboxes and my coworker Steve.
17) You know I'm lying when: I admit that I’m lying. Otherwise, it’s only kind of obvious.
18) You know what I miss most about the eighties: The lead singers of awesome bands still being alive (I’m talking to you, INXS, Joy Division, and Nirvana).
19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I'd be: Hamlet. Not for the shameless primadonna show and everything but for the questionable sanity. No, let me take that back. I’ll say Mercutio.
20) By this time, next year: I will have finished writing my book and feel more aimless than ever.
21) A better name for me would be: Luis.
22) I have a hard time understanding: why anyone would think margarine is better than real butter.
23) If I ever go back to school I'll: no longer live anywhere near this part of the country.
24) You know I like you if: I avoid you completely. Wait, that’s not right.
25) If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: Michael Jordan.
26) Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferarara....are: names of the new models in Ford’s 2007 line of automobiles.
27) Take my advice, never: step in a pile of cow poo. It’s overrated.
28) My ideal breakfast is: a cinammon raisin bagel. Maybe with cream cheese.
29) A song I love but do not have is: “Senor Burns” by Tito Puente.
30) If you visit my hometown, I suggest: you go to a neighboring town if you want to do anything fun.
31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars are: gangs I hung out with in my youth.
32) Why won't anyone: give me a high five right now?
33) If you spend the night at my house: you win a free pizza.
34) I'd stop my wedding for: an elephant. Or a rhino.
35) The world could do without: Australia.
36) I'd rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: lick the belly of an uglier cockroach.
37) My favorite blonde is: Sara Daly.
38) Paperclips are more useful than: fingernail clippings.
39) San Diego means: Saint Diego. I’m sure I’m not the first person to say that, but I can rarely resist an opportunity to be literal and not funny.
40) And by the way: the MOON rulz.

My Societal Niche Has Been Co-Opted

There's a new funny guy in the office, and his name is not Ben or any variation on the word Ben. Nor is his name Dwight. His name is Brian.

On the lunch buffet sign up sheet, Brian wrote for his contribution, "Me? Er...Pepsi." This brought me some small delight as it made the page a good deal more interesting to read.

Usually I consider myself the clever funny guy, so I feel like my role has been stolen. But I think I've never actually done anything that funny in this building. So whatever.

A Simpsons quote ought to solve my problems:
LISA: This is your chance to develop a new and better identity. May I suggest...good-natured doormat?
BART: Sounds good, sis. Just tell me what to do.

My Eyes!

I can't tell whether or not this is the fault of the letters or my brain, but somehow there's a tendency for every set of letters to float toward the center of the page or screen and reform to spell the word "Ninja."

I think this is a sign. I need to eat more Ninja.

Less Insane?

Today I had my first Cigna nap in weeks. I used to nap during every lunch hour, but now that I gave up reading (temporarily), I have scarce initiation for napping. Today, though, sleep just came to me. And I dreamt about packing a set of clothes to take with me somewhere so that I could change into them after something.

Still Going Insane

I was just reading a pleasant little article about bipolar artist and musician Daniel Johnston when I got a call. I get calls sometimes. It's my job now.

I answer with my normal stupid greeting, and the person on the other line says something in a language I can't possibly understand that sounds like "happy kistani." And suddenly my pleasant little escapist fantasy comes crashing down.

I suppose it's good to have a firm grounding in reality and the vast disparity between the peoples of the world, but it's not the kind of thing you should surprise someone with. You should surprise someone with pizza or ice cream.

I'm Going Insane

I hope there are some hackers out there because I'm about to publish the password for my Cigna computer.

Yesterday I was prompted to renew my password because my old one would expire in 14 days. I had already used my standard password assortment, but you have to have at least five passwords in rotation at Cigna for some reason. I needed to think of something and fast. So I thought of something I'd never thought of before:

Albertville

I have no idea where that came from. No idea. Anybody else have a clue?

EDIT: I think it derives from my frequent use of the name "Albert" and inexplicable love for the suffix "ville."

Daylight Sucking Time

I realize that I've dished out a few choice insults to Daylight Savings Time in the past, but now for some reason I feel almost tolerant of it. Granted, I'm a bit perturbed by the fact that I'm woefully tired before 10 P.M., but I suppose I'll pull through. I nearly determined that Daylight Savings Time is good if only because it proves that mankind can adapt, but then I determined that adaptation is bad.

Why Am I Not Surprised?

More and more the Peace Corps does not seem like something I should do. I've been reading today about the work volunteers typically do, and it seems like I'd be there with an air of superiority and as a means for development in areas that I don't care about (specifically economics). I'd be making an important difference, but perhaps that's not the kind of difference I want to make.

The things that attracted/are still attracting me to it are the interaction with a completely different culture, which I believe is necessary for me to experience, and the living of a very basic, nearly ascetic life. For the former, I have to go abroad at some point. For the latter, I could just as easily sell all my worldly belongings as run away from them, and perhaps that's the real challenge.

As I've thought and prayed about this, the one thing I've been most stuck on is my relationships with and responsibilities to others. There's so much that happens in two years that I feel like I wouldn't know anyone when I got back. Their--your--lives would go in so many different directions, as would mine, that I'd worry we'd be on such different levels. I've grown with you all so much in the last however-long we've known each other, and it troubles me to walk out of that.

The PC is not not an option, but I am postponing my application. Maybe someday I'll figure something out.

Coming soon: more funny stuff.