(not) Getting Things Done At Work

Salutations my dedicated, mistreated readers. I'm back! The last week has been terrifying and involved a  lot of me getting from one place I didn't want to be to another I place I wanted to be even less where I would then carry around two heavy recording tools and a large stick with legs to make memories of things I have no intention of remembering. If you're a bit slow and haven't already guessed, I'm a photo/videographer. Now that the 60th anniversary of diplomatic relations between the United States and Cambodia (true story) has ended, I find myself released from my bonds of harried servitude and therefore able to pay more attention to the things I love, you.

I've decided to celebrate my return to the desolate, dicouraging world of internet obscurity by taking you through the many risks of having an internet connection and/or access to glue at the office.

Prior to this week of uninhibited governmental celebration, my office time was largely spent wandering bleary-eyed across the vast landscapes of the internet searching for entertainment; I had completed my assigned tasks within several minutes of having been received them, and therefore had nothing to do almost all of the time. Thankfully, the internet was more than happy to oblige my desire for entertainment. In the beginning, I was startled and confused to find that I could use the internet for more than just pleasuring myself to video games porn, but I soon got used to it and became a professional pioneer of its virtual safaris. I mastered the art of moving from one page of entertainment to the next without faltering and having to start over. A typical session of internet perusal (last wednesday) may go as follows:

I started at Cracked, which I adore, and embarked on my adventure from a Linkstorm, which leads me to a topic of vital importance. After reading through the article and staring at the pretty pictures, I am inspired to do something with my hands. After a quick search through my low-quality office supplies, I found an item with the potential entertainment value of The Pianist with clowns instead of nazis and an even greater focus on Adrien Brody's nose.

You know you would watch this.

I glanced around my desk in search of something to anoint in my newly found glue, and my eyes alighted upon a staple sculpture I had created several days before. It is at this time that I am faced with the certainty that the glorious structure, in all its pointy wonder, would be best immortalized in a shower of Chainteef Office Brand Water Glue. 

Modern Art

Disappointed by my creation of something that was much to ahead of its time to be displayed in a museum, I allowed my mind to wander while staring at the half-empty bottle of glue slowly leaking onto my pants, which is alright because their the kind of pants that suffocate one's groin all day. Amid the thoughts of my own impending, pants-derived infertility, I struck genius. I would pour the remaining glue all over my hands and think it through later.

After fashioning a pair of glue gloves like we all did in grade school, I did the thing we all did next; I rubbed my hands together and fashioned the glue into a ball. A ball which functioned more effectively than any professionally crafted bouncy ball ever has. The only downside is it instills in peeping coworkers the unwavering idea that you had just picked your nose and began playing with the findings. 

Shiny strawberry lip balm included for reference.

My glue ball lasted me about 25 minutes before it hardened and it became unusable. After some tears, I was able to pursue my nagging desire to learn more about making your own gloves; back to the internet. I found phone gloves which were disappointingly unwieldy, which led me to recycled decor, which gave me ideas for my own home decoration endeavors. The recycled decor led me to, from a link to an article on another site, something that made me want to punch a woman in the eye, and then not apologize.

If you have a job, and there is a 77% percent chance you don't, you know exactly what I am talking about when I say that the internet and mundane office supplies can entertain for hours on end, especially when you have work to do. 

Hmm, I must say, my return to internet failure is not well-represented by this rather mediocre article, but I am going to post it anyway because I am vindictive. Vindictive as, well, those women who shave and dress and dye their poodles.

I'll produce a work of quality shortly.

A Much Deserved Explanation

If it seems like I've not been posting lately, it's because I haven't been. My job has recently come under increasing work-related pressure and I must therefore devote the next five days to doing a lot of overtime. The embassy here is celebrating the 60th anniversary of diplomatic relations between the United States and the host country, Cambodia. For this reason, a number of events are occuring every day that my job dictates I must act as photographer and videographer for. This leaves little time to post, but I'll do my best.

In my relative absence, perhaps Niina and idonteven will amuse you.

You may all expect me back in posting form by Saturday afternoon.

Tidbit: Walking down the street by the river last night on the way to photograpgh some things, I encountered a troupe of latchkey children banging some birds together. It made me sad.

My Sincerest Apologies

Fine readers, I apologize for the delay in producing more funny for you, but I've been absolutely exhausted the last two days. However, I promise to write one up for tomorrow, and I'll do my best to make it acceptable.

But please, enjoy this free Jell-O while you wait.

Yummy

PS - The reason I'm tired is because this is what my last two days was

Pictured: Me devouring Kristen Stewart and her boyfriend, Jacob

Hi, I'm Ruby Roslyn and I've been a photographer for over a week!

Hi there everybody! I'm Ruby Roslyn and I'm a photographer. My parents bought me a totally amazing Cannon D90 last week and I'm already taking beautiful photos that I post on my new Tumblr and on my Facebook so all my friends can see how unique and artsy I am. But it's not just photography that I'm good at. I like to use my Tumblr (because it's so easy and simple and unique and artsy) to post all the interesting or funny things that I think about during my days of being unique and artsy. Like yesterday I realized how life is either an adventure or nothing, so I posted that to help inspire my thousands of readers to find their own uniqueness and artsyness like I have. 


I really like to take pictures of myself, or use other pictures of me, and then use the filters in photoshop to turn them into unique art, and then I make them my profile pictures on my blog and Facebook so all my friends can see how good I am at Photoshop (not too mention how pretty I am). Here's one of my favorites of me:

I think it really shows how good at photography and photoshop I am. I had my older brother download CS5 onto my macbook because it's so much better for my photography than CS4 was. I love how many artsy stickers I have on my laptop! It really shows my uniqueness, not to mention my mac's wallpaper! It's a picture of chairs with smiley faces and a cat in the corner saying "look at these chairs"! Cracks me up every time!




Anyway, I think I should show you some of my very best photography!

This is one is of a flower in my backyard! I used a special lens my dad bought me so I could capture the flower's beauty. My Cannon D90 does a great job of capturing colors.

And this is a picture I took of an apple so I could symbolize commercialism in today's society and the president's taxes and the BP oil spill. I feel really bad for the fish and seals... so I'm doing my part to bring awareness to the spill with my art.


Those are just two of my very best, you'll have to visit my Tumblr and Facebook for the rest! 


My friends, who are almost all good photographers like me, would often ask if I took any classes to get so good at photography. I don't understand this question because art and uniqueness can't be taught! It comes naturally after getting a good camera. None of us has ever needed classes for it. It's just like beauty and being good at poetry. 

Like this one.




Some people really don't get it though. Like one time I was talking about my pictures with my friend Ella and this guy asked us if we liked Ansel Adams' pictures. I told him it wasn't funny to make up names. It turns out I was wrong and apparently he's a pretty popular photographer, which is stupid because all he did was take pictures of trees and mountains and old people. That's not art. now my friend Ella, she's a good artist. She took a black and white picture of a lawn chair yesterday that was gorgeous. I don't even know how to make my camera be black and white :(


Anywayyy it's been great talking about me, but Hairspray comes on in five minutes and I don't wanna miss it! Don't forget to keep checking my Facebook and Tumblr where I'll post status updates which overtly suggest how beautiful and unique and artsy I am!


Remember, war is always bad, and peace is always good. I was thinking that up last night :)

Utterly useless crap.

You're welcome. :)

Agony of Choice: One Man's Quest For Audio Superiority

Having recently replaced my stolen iPod with an even better one (a royal "fuck you" to the thieves), and also finding myself suddenly not broke, I decided it was time to get a set of speakers that would make music Ke$ha proud. After asking around, I was told that speakers could be found at Sorya, a shopping center close by. Desperate for the cheap prices I presumed could be found in a Cambodian shopping center, I immediately nabbed a tuktuk to Sorya. On the Fourth floor are found electronics ranging from fecal earphones to holy-shit-I-need-to-change-my-pants headphones to look-at-that-TVs. After locating several purveyors of iPod speakers, I began my rigorous review phase:

The first set I encountered was really just a speaker. What attracted me to the iMax Mini was a large warning on the box claiming "Unbelievably Loud". Eager and aroused, I plugged it in to my iPod and was regaled with the  quietest, most distorted tale of a woman waking up in the morning feeling like a popular hip hop artist and then proceeding to brush her teeth with booze, that I have ever heard.

"Warning: Will Ruin Erection"

My arousal shattered, I refused the tiny Droideka; I wouldn't want Ke$ha to be offended.

"Oh no you didn't"

Feeling a bit depressed, I moved on to the next purveyor and found this:

"Money to buy it not included"

This JBL model (probably not a real one) proved to have startlingly big sound with great quality for such a tiny dock and my erection swiftly returned. I turned to address the store clerk, who turned out to be breathlessly attractive. I looked from the clerk to the dock to the clerk again, and my erection was conflicted over what to be more aroused by. I settled for both equally. 

Finally regaining the ability to speak, I asked her how much the dock cost. 

139 dollars. 

Shit.

I decided it was imperative that I not show this beautiful store clerk that I wasn't made of money, so after almost a minute of silence in which my face struggled to remain unchanged, I told her I would come back if I couldn't find a better, definitely more expensive one. Because I'm absolutely loaded. 

I flashed her a smile and departed, with no intention of returning. 

After judging several more models, I began to feel like I would never find the right speakers for me. They were all either too expensive, too shitty, or too looks-like-a-Pokemon (which would be awesome if I could be sure no woman would ever see it ever). 

"She won't be fondling your Pokeballs"

On the verge of giving up, I found this:

"Your arousal is justified"

The ExtremeMac Studio. I knew it was love at first sight. The following is the series of events that followed my discovery of this dock:

Search for dock. The fucker comes out of the bottom when you push it. Awesome.

Test. Holy shit that's loud! And the quality is great! Awesome.

Charging is supported! Awesome

A remote too!? Awesome. *Adjusts pants to facilitate straining arousal*

Check the voltage. 100-240! It'll work in the US! Awesome!

Cost. 70 dollars. Change of pants necessary.

Needless to say, I bought them and they are now situated on my nightstand, playing my music Ke$ha oh so beautifully.

"Those speakers make even my shit music sound decent"

Maybe now she'll spend more time wanting to marry me for my speakers and less time ruining the music industry.

I've Done It!

I've just set up another blog where I'll be posting related to my "art"istic endeavors so I can avoid clogging up this space with content people may or may not be interested in. On this blog I'll keep posting the musings, adventures, and other interesting things I encounter/imagine/find noteworthy.

http://waitwhatart.blogspot.com/
Have a visit if you'd like, it's still got some work to be done, but again, this is where you'll find my "art"sy stuff.

General Announcement

Since I seem to be devoting a lot of time to blogging and "art"ing, I'm considering creating another blog (will be linked to from this one), which will concern itself solely with my "art"istic endeavors. This is just a heads up in case anyone wonders where my stories and pictures are going. I'll try to make the new blog easily accessible from this one.

The reason for this being I feel like I have too much varied content on this blog, which I would prefer to have devoted to musings/adventures/tidbits of an amusing (if possible) nature. I'll hopefully have this set up by tomorrow evening, my time. Feel free to contact me by email or otherwise if you have better ideas or whatever.

Thank you fine readers

Goth Clubs > Other Clubs

I'd like to get one thing out of the way before I go on about the wonders of goth clubs, and that is that I am in no way a goth, nor do I have anything against them (quite the contrary, in fact). I just love the atmosphere and music.

First of all, I'm not a fan of dancing anyplace other than a goth club, because when I dance to notgothmusic, I look like a late-stage parkinson's patient who's about to be beaten to death for looking like a bloody idiot. Here's me at a notgothclub. Ladies?

Wow, I sure am awesome. And in case you're wondering, this disturbingly empty club is located in Kep, Cambodia. These pictures were taken approxmately 10 days ago. Further, that thing on my head which is so flawlessly complimenting my badassery dripping with awesomeness is a Buff. These linfinitely useful head ornaments are a necessity for those who find themselves traveling a lot in extreme weather and for those with beautiful hair that reacts badly when exposed to "dancing". Here, the Buff is making me awesome in the same way that a pirate is awesome. (The second picture is of me doing my impression of BP)

Moving on, and back to what I thought I would write about, the quintessential club is none other than the goth club. I frequent one not too far from my place of residence every Friday. I refuse to name the example of club perfection lest my adoring fans fan overwhelm me there. But I can assure you it is the best.

The music in a goth club is consistently the best dance music in the history of everything. Artists like Wolfsheim, The Cure, Apoptygma Berserk, Covenant, VNV Nation, She Wants Revenge, Skinny Puppy, and more caress your eardrums like only the most expensive Lebanese prostitutes can.

Another reason I love the goth club is that the dancing that goes on within is far superior to the dancing that accompanies hip-hop (looking like an asshole), pop (looking like a shithead), or metal (looking like a shitheaded asshole). Goth dancing is only matched in awesomeness by swing dancing, which I would love to learn how to do without killing myself.

The reason goth dancing is so amazing is because there are no expectations in place. Therefore, in a goth club, you are likely to encounter examples from beautiful to does-he-know-people-can-see-him. And no one will judge you! I typically dance like a fucking legend, but that wasn't so when I first started going there, but the great thing is there will always be someone looking stupider than you, so it doesn't matter. Even better, there really is no expected dress. For example, I never dress as a goth for a night at the club, and neither do many of its patrons.

The last reason I find goth clubs so compelling is the people who frequent them; goths, freaks, normies, old people, unexplainables, thatguys, and oh-my-god-I-love-hers. The goth club I visit weekly is made up of these people. My favorite are the oh-my-god-I-love-hers, obviously. Despite my lack of goth mentality/dress/lifestyle, I find the less severe goth females incredibly compelling, but then I've always been fond of weird, and glasses, for that matter. Reading glasses. Irresistible.

                                                                                                                                                               Dat glass.

Anyway, goth clubs are perfect for people-watching. These venues typically attract a cross-section of society's more interesting people, and I much prefer them over the less unique, regular club population.

If you find yourself wanting to spend an evening out partying and a goth club is within reasonable travel distance, I sincerely urge you to take the plunge. You won't regret it.

All this talk of goth clubs makes me miss home; there are no goth clubs in Cambodia.

Modern science is awesome, and I can be online while on a bus.

That is all.

Voice - A Short Story

The phone did not ring.

  6 o’clock. The phone should be ringing. It has every day for as long as he can remember. Ten more minutes now. He begins to panic.
  An old proverb forces him to the maggot-infested bed. A watched pot never boils. He slams his trembling eyes shut as the ancient springs sigh beneath his weight.
  He waits for that phone to boil. It does.
  He flails at the receiver, crawling, and snatches it from beside the nightstand and wheezes a greeting.
  Waiting.
  Silence, but then…
“Hello.” From the darkness comes a voice, cold.
  Silent sobs temporarily mute the prone, bedside form. He coughs. Sniffs. Speaks.
“I believed you lost forever.” More sobs. More silence.
  Struggling to contain himself, he chokes back tears and yanks his frail body onto the bed, pressing the receiver to his ear. His knuckles whitened with desperate effort. Glee. Sheer glee replaces despair. She is here again. He can live again.
“How are you?” She asked. So cold.
“Fine,” He lied. “And you?” Normality. He thanks God.
“I am well. I was late today, calling you. I hope that you were not much bothered”
“No, not at all! Why would I be bothered?” The lie burnt in his mouth like acid.
“Good. I have been busy lately.” Emotionless.
  Suddenly the dark, fetid, motel room felt like a suite at the Roosevelt. Pulling himself into a sitting
position, he smiles.
“It’s fine. I’m just glad you called.” Sincerity oozed from every croaked syllable. He held onto her voice, wrapping himself in it, absorbing every last note. The voice is his comfort, the port in the storm of his life.
“I must go.” Stated the passionless voice from the other end of the universe. His
motel-room turned palace crumbled, burying him in a sorrow all too familiar.
“Goodbye.” A click. Echoed in his skull. He hurls the receiver across the room.
  Every day.
  Self-loathing overcomes him. He should be used to this by now. What connection does he have to her, anyway? She is just a voice. Was she always just a voice? He does not love her. How can one love a voice?
  He grasps what comfort her voice has left him. Panics, afraid it will escape like every other time. Thrashing.
  He begins to scream.
  Every day.
  Hours pass. He rises. Sorrow. Desperation. Existence. For him they are triumvirate. On shaking knees he enters the bathroom.
  Needles will make the phone ring.

It's Cold Outside - A Short Story

He would die soon. He was sure of it. He could feel the snow, like a thousand tiny fists, pushing and pulling him to the ground. He had far to travel, and his waning strength convinced him he would not make it to dinner. 

The roaring wind ripping through his hood like hungry wolves numbed his ears; he pulled his heavy coat tighter around him. Nothing existed in the white expanse of the glacier, no shapes, and no people, only white. And the snow. But the snow wasn’t even the worst of it, he could deal with snow. The real problem was the wind. It surged across the snowy plain like some big, cold football team; and he was the only opposition. He could make little progress against a gale like this, and was about ready to give up when he heard something, a call, no, a voice, rising over the scream of the storm. 

“Dinner’s ready, Luke! Come downstairs before it gets cold!” 

What on earth? He wondered. It was a woman’s voice. He knew the voice was calling for him, but his name wasn’t Luke! It was Sir Gary Rockman, world famous explorer! But he was hungry. And he knew that if he didn’t eat soon, he would collapse here in the wastes, a feast for the snow beasts, if they could ever find him under the snow that is. 

Wait. It could be a trap, set by the snow terrors to lure him right to them, where they would gobble him up without a moment’s thought of mercy. A strange part of Sir Rockman couldn’t blame them, he would gobble himself up too, as hungry as he was. Weighing the options, however, he gathered himself and resolved to follow the voice; he would die if he opted not to, he knew.

With renewed vigor, Sir Rockman traversed the barren landscape, slowly but surely making his way to the origin of the voice, toward food, toward life. He would make it for dinner, he felt confident now. Unfortunately, he soon realized that he may have lost his way. Why wouldn’t the woman shout for him again? Desperate, and perhaps a little maddened by the nothingness surrounding him, he shouted for her against the roar of the ripping winds. 

“Stop screaming! Your food’s on the table and its getting cold!” 

She heard him! Oh how the Gods are kind! He knew the way now; he didn’t want his food to get cold. He pressed on. “I’m coming! Don’t worry. I shouldn’t be too much lon-“ His breath caught in his throat as he stepped up to, and almost over, a sheer cliff, dropping down in to a thick fog of snow. He couldn’t fathom as to its depth. He hadn’t the tools necessary to make the descent; they had been eaten by one of the snow beasts several days ago! 

“Your food is getting colder by the second L-“ he could see her, outlined at the bottom of the cliff, and she had seen him too! “Ahh, brave adventurer! Come warm yourself in my kitchen. I have food to share and stories to tell.” Finally! She could see that he was a great explorer and not some Luke. 

The rope! He remembered! Sir Rockman always had an extra rope in his sack. It wasn’t much for scaling cliffs, but it would have to be enough. He tied one end around his waist and fastened another to the bottom of a tall stone at the edge of the cliff. He hoped he had enough rope, and threw his legs over the edge. 

The climb was not all that difficult, there were plenty of handholds to support him on the way down, and Sir Rockman was ever the professional rock climber. He was approaching the bottom when something went horrible awry. Suddenly his rope gave as the stone he had tied it around was ripped from the ground! Sir Rockman plummeted to the base of the cliff, a fall that must have been nothing shy of several stories. 

“Oh my God! Luke, are you all right! Honey, he just rolled down the stairs, help me.” 

Sir Rockman looked around. The good news was he was alive. Barely a scratch on him even! The bad news though is that soon, he would not be near as alive as he was then. A giant shape tore out of the storm, coming right at him! A snow beast! It was all a trap! He was doomed! 

“ROAR! I’m a polar bear! I’m gonna eat you! Your heavy fur coat won’t save you now!”

He rolled to his feet and out of his coat, he had to start running and his coat would only weigh him down. He dashed across the plains, the bear hot on his heels. He wouldn’t escape, he was a goner. 

Luke burst out in laughter as his father wrapped his strong arms around him and lifted him in to the air. “I’m gonna eat you brave explorer! Roar!” his father bellowed as he gobbled up with kisses.  

“It’s Sir Rockman, to you, daddy!” 

“Clark, he broke the banister over here!” Called his mother from the hallway.

“Uh oh! It’s all right I showed him what's what!” he called back before turning back to his child  “And now will the brave adventurer have dinner with us?” 

He was done being Sir Rockman for the day, he was very hungry.

“Yes!” he replied.

"Art"Fest

Sorry lads, I've been astoundingly busy the last few days and opted to get paid rather than stay broke. To make it up to you, I am going to make 3 posts this evening. First, an "art" post. Here are a sample of pieces I've been working on over the last few days.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed them, and I welcome comments and violently attack criticism.

Why Owning An iPod is a Like Having a Baby, Only Less Awful

Here I sit, laptop on lap, waiting for my iPod (link) to tell me my onions are ready, and I'm thinking to myself Golly Trav, this "having an iPod" thing, it's a pretty big commitment. It's exactly like having a baby (link), probably even harder. So I decided to consider the similarities between babies and iPods. Here is a list I just came up with.

1. Your iPod needs to be fed or it dies. So do babies.
2. iPods and babies both prefer being dressed to protect them from wounds and sexual predators.
3. Last week a frenchman stole my iPod. I hear they steal babies too.








Beware, he steals iPods and babies.












4. You need to grow corn in them or their people will die. 
5. You need to harvest your corn on time or it well get fussy and develop a rash.
6. You need to pay a lot when you first get one.
7. The cost of upkeep rises rather quickly as you "improve" it with more skills.
8. These skills cost more money.
9. Neither will ever make you proud.
10. Both will piss you off to no end.
11. They are both perfectly capable of consuming and therefore ruining your life.
12. You can't blog on your baby, but you can blog about your baby (no one cares) with your iPod.
13. They can both be loud, but iPods require you plug speakers in them first.
14. You can make them both be quiet.
15. You can pretend your iPod is a lightsaber. You can also pretend your baby is a lightsaber.
16. Using either of them in public is unlikely to make you popular with hot chicks.
17. One covers itself with shit, and the other loads shit on you while pretending to make life easier.


The only difference of note I can think of is that babies suck and iPods don't.

THE CURE FOR INSOMNIA IS COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF ALCOHOL.

(hi i'm niina.)