for some reason the tags did not crosspost
1. Mare Internum is great, so that's the second time someone's recced me a webcomic and I've enjoyed it, which I assume means people who pay attention. ;) It's good.
2. Here's an idea for me: maybe if I stopped assuming a workout needs to be at minimum 90 minutes long I might stop having to abandon days due to "not enough time" and then get in a foul mood about it. (Ya boy ain't made it to the gym today because he was fucking unable to get up until 4pm. Just. Paralysed with tiredness. Tomorrow I'm going to experiment with a short work-out, because otherwise I basically won't get to go to the gym more than twice this week, and that won't do).
3. GOING TO WATCH SHITTY WRESTLING TOMORROW BEFORE WORK. wOOOOOOO
4. App concept: something where you scan or enter food amounts, like you do on MFP, and you have it set up with your desired calories and macros, like you do on MFP, but it tells you what meals you can make with what you have entered that will still fit your macros so you don't DIE OF BOREDOM. Should mostly require: maths, end-user database entry (MFP macro database uses nutritional information built up by users entering stuff), access to recipes but also end-user database entry again.
5. Email from Holly: "I dreamt that you published a Max Stroke story called In The Hole Of The Mountain King."
6. Brainspam for Tourist's guide which hopefully makes up for the fact that I have totally forgotten what it was I wanted to say about Gogmagog because FUCKING ONENOTE:
It is not the article that matters, but the faith. There are 5 million pieces of the true cross, but a relic is still a relic. A. M. Bartholomew was born the son of a Christian man and woman, subtype: tabernaclist, but he converted; he is a child of Israel back to the birth of the sands the second is foreskin is gone. The Roman Wall is built of plaster and a tonne of tourist sweat baptises it into battlements, making mythology anew, waking Mithras in the nearby brickwork. It doesn't matter who killed five working girls in Whitechapel: it was all of those men and none of them. The girls still died, and die again and again, while Jack lives, and thrives, and lurks with his Lister knife in the imagination. True histories are built on lies. Money is traded on it, whims and hunches, lives lost to it. With each new retrospective the past is rewritten: Rhynwick the Monster, Rhynwick the fit-up, unlucky in Newgate. The dinosaurs ceaselessly mutate in our understanding: we are who we pretend to be.
Change is our birthright.
2. Here's an idea for me: maybe if I stopped assuming a workout needs to be at minimum 90 minutes long I might stop having to abandon days due to "not enough time" and then get in a foul mood about it. (Ya boy ain't made it to the gym today because he was fucking unable to get up until 4pm. Just. Paralysed with tiredness. Tomorrow I'm going to experiment with a short work-out, because otherwise I basically won't get to go to the gym more than twice this week, and that won't do).
3. GOING TO WATCH SHITTY WRESTLING TOMORROW BEFORE WORK. wOOOOOOO
4. App concept: something where you scan or enter food amounts, like you do on MFP, and you have it set up with your desired calories and macros, like you do on MFP, but it tells you what meals you can make with what you have entered that will still fit your macros so you don't DIE OF BOREDOM. Should mostly require: maths, end-user database entry (MFP macro database uses nutritional information built up by users entering stuff), access to recipes but also end-user database entry again.
5. Email from Holly: "I dreamt that you published a Max Stroke story called In The Hole Of The Mountain King."
6. Brainspam for Tourist's guide which hopefully makes up for the fact that I have totally forgotten what it was I wanted to say about Gogmagog because FUCKING ONENOTE:
It is not the article that matters, but the faith. There are 5 million pieces of the true cross, but a relic is still a relic. A. M. Bartholomew was born the son of a Christian man and woman, subtype: tabernaclist, but he converted; he is a child of Israel back to the birth of the sands the second is foreskin is gone. The Roman Wall is built of plaster and a tonne of tourist sweat baptises it into battlements, making mythology anew, waking Mithras in the nearby brickwork. It doesn't matter who killed five working girls in Whitechapel: it was all of those men and none of them. The girls still died, and die again and again, while Jack lives, and thrives, and lurks with his Lister knife in the imagination. True histories are built on lies. Money is traded on it, whims and hunches, lives lost to it. With each new retrospective the past is rewritten: Rhynwick the Monster, Rhynwick the fit-up, unlucky in Newgate. The dinosaurs ceaselessly mutate in our understanding: we are who we pretend to be.
Change is our birthright.