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In the world that we despise,
are there times of loss or wonder?
Toiling ever, full of lies,
sick of writhing, going under.

In that bleakness waiting never,
'till no senseless drone became.
Wrath or sunder, thrash or sever,
breaking through with none to claim.

And that weakness sups upon us,
gibbers for our souls do slake.
With a thirst so vile and vicious,
we but shiver in its wake.

Thus all reason burns with malice,
shackled minds do shriek and wail.
It's the endless wrath of solace,
which expects all things to fail.

Our existence springs from chaos,
maelstrom forged and wrongly won.
And when entropy does claim us,
that is all we are: undone.

So the onslaught of tomorrows,
crushes bones of beneath the skies.
And the eons fall like shadows,
in the world that we despise.

For the past couple of months, I’ve tapped a universe very much unlike the one I’m accustomed to experiencing. I did this by purchasing my first Android phone, in this case, a Droid Eris. My Samsung Rogue suffered a mishap in the washing machine back in June, and I wasn’t eligible for a new phone until March 2011.

About a week ago, my website and email vanished off the face of the internet. I think this deserves a certain amount of explanation, lest someone think I’m incompetent in my own field. Not too long ago, I switched off my colocated server because I don’t need my own personal machine for two websites, a couple very small databases, and a low-volume email server. I didn’t downgrade fully to a shared host because I run a Django app, Wordpress, PostgreSQL, MySQL for the afore mentioned Wordpress content, Postfix to better control my blacklists, with Postgrey because greylisting kills an assload of spam blacklists would miss, etc. I’m sure there’s a regular webhost that has all that, but I haven’t found them yet.

As I sit here drinking the fifth Pumpkin Ale of the night, I’ve come to a realization I’ve entertained several times through the last few years: I’m too uptight. Unfortunately it’s not just a matter of being a bundle of nerves. I’ve always self-medicated to one degree or another, but it’s readily apparent I’m only relaxed enough to be “normal” when my usual vigilance is chemically retarded.

Many fathers only want the best for their daughters: the most competitive colleges, the fanciest cars, a man that’s truly worthy of her attention. Jim Seymore, a local butcher, bemoans his daughter’s choice of a successful brain surgeon instead of a vampire in her search for love.