centre of the universe - the dreaming

Dear Database:

You and I have had our differences in the past, and I swear to God, I have done everything I can to try and understand you. I know that you had a difficult upbringing, and, like anyone in a relationship, you brought baggage to ours. No one would say we have had an easy relationship, but for the most part, we've worked fairly well together over the last eight years. Sure, there have been arguments, and we're both guilty of losing our tempers, but we had some good times, too, didn't we? Remember that form that worked out on first try? Ha. Yeah, that was a good one.

Lately, though, I've noticed we seem to be growing apart. Eight years is an awfully long time for any relationship, and I know I'm not the first, or the only one, you've been with. We didn't establish this as a dedicated, monogamous relationship, but...well...*I* certainly haven't used any other databases since I met you. I've dabbled here and there, but. Well. No hard feelings. I guess I just thought things would be different. I don't know why; probably, that's unreasonable of me.

Do you remember when we first met, and you were having so many problems? Who was the one who went to counselling? Who took all those classes to try to "understand" you better? It was me. ME, database. You did nothing. You just sat there, binging and flinging out error messages...I should have known then that you'd be criticising everything I tried, no matter how logical the arguments; no matter how correct the parameters. But I thought it would be different. I thought I could change you. I thought....damn it, I thought you would give me *some* leeway. I thought you might meet me halfway, allow me some aggregate function in your life.

I see now that's not going to happen. I see now that our relationship will always be one of strained expressions. It didn't seem like a lot to ask, just to get you to do some simple calculations a couple of times a year. Is that too much? When we first met, you told me, "it's what I do". Is it, Database? Is it what you do? Even now? After ten, twelve years?

 I'm writing this letter to tell you that we're done. No more hand-holding, no more delicate coddling. Our relationship, which has, of late, been strained at best, is going to be only work-related from now on. No late night trysts and union queries. No weekend control manipulation. From now on, it's strictly business. If I need a number, you're going to give it to me, and that will be the end of our communications. I'm not going to bother commenting in your code anymore. I'm not going to struggle with compilation. I'm not going to comb all night through your lookup fields.

The more things change, Database, the more they stay the same with you. I'm moving on. I saw a nice SQL sitting over in the corner; provided it has a usable interface...well...like we said in the beginning - we never agreed to be monogamous. So you just go ahead with that smug look on your screen. I know a guy, Database. You're not indispensable, you know that? You're not irreplaceable. I need more, Database, and you're not the one who can give it to me.

So this is goodbye. Sure, there are going to be loose ends and unfinished business; we've been together for eight years, after all. I get the toaster oven, though.

Yours,
cenobyte

Labels: letters

Dear little wee people living inside my television:

It must be very difficult for you living in there; you have to have specially-made tiny furniture and cars and underpants. I suppose they don't let you out of there much, what with the demands of syndication. On the other hand, your weather is usually predictable.

Listen, I think it's wonderful that Doofus and The Crosseyed Wench decided to get married to each other in mini-Las Vegas, and I'm not going to lie to you; when I saw them with miniscule Star Trek communicator pins, my cockles were warmed. I am certianly not one to begrudge two weirdos in love. And honestly, I would have loved to get married on the bridge of the Enterprise. In fact, when His Nibs and Yours Truly were sending out invitations, we even sent one to Mr. William Shatner.

Well. To be honest, *I* sent an invitation. For our wedding. To Mr. William Shatner.

So imagine my surprise when I saw you, trapped in your miniature world, your trifling world walled on one side by glass, talking to a pocket-sized wedding planner about your wedding in Las Vegas, and you said the only guest you wanted was none other than Mr. William Shatner. MY William Shatner. My Mr. William Shatner who didn't even send back my RSVP card, even though I'd sent an SASE and enough Yankee postage to get it back here. I thought, "Oh. Oh, this is too rich. Doofus and The Crosseyed Wench will NEVER get Mr. William Shatner. First of all, he's far too busy to return people's RSVP cards in postage-paid SASEs. MUCH too busy to actually *go* to someone's wedding just because they watched him once a week on Saturday mornings for the first fifteen years of their lives."

You know, I don't really have all that much to say to you, to be honest. The truth is, you are only, at maximum, twenty-some inches high. And you can't 'ekscape' your little LCD/Plasma prison. And I think that serves you right. Shatner stealers.

So we're not going to keep up this charade, my meager former friends. I hope your sham of a "wedding" was everything you wanted to be. The dress made you look fat.

Yours in disenShatulation,
cenobyte

Labels: letters

I'm sorry that things didn't work out the way we all thought they did. Ha-ha, that's funny, isn't it? Yeah. Well. I know it can be tough, being something that a lot of people don't like to believe in. Maybe we can talk about it another time, over cappucino?

Listen, two trips to the hospital in as many days is just...well it's a bit much. It was bad enough having to wait with a sick and sweaty, tired four year old in a strange hospital in a down we don't know at all. But six hours in an emergency room to get three stitches?

I know I'm complaining. I shouldn't. Just...maybe...I wonder if maybe we could work something out between us - just you and me - as friends?

I'm pretty sure Stitchface would appreciate it. He's totally done with hospitals and doctors now. Really. Done.

Anyway, let's talk about it soon, okay?

Thanks,
cenobyte

Labels: kids, letters, sicky mcsickerton, The Nipper

Hi, Monica de Montiableque!

I'm so glad you finally emailed me!
At first, I wasn't sure what P 3 n1SSSS 3N 7@rGm3 nt meant, but I figured it out. It's all about pleasing h3r, after all, isn't it? Did you go to a special school to learn how to make words out of numbers? 'Cause that's really cool. When I was in grade five, someone grabbed my calculator and entered: 28008 and then told me to look at it upside down. You know what was funny? I thought he meant 'do a headstand and look at these numbers'! Ha! That's funny. Because that's not what he meant. He meant 'turn this calculator around so that the number pad is facing away from you and see what it says'.

I did that, and do you know what it said? "BOOBS", that's what! Then he typed in 28008.618 and said "What does that say?" and I said "twenty-eight thousand and eight point six-one-eight!" And he said, "No, you idiot, it says "BIG BOOBS". That was the height of trying the social taboos in grade five.

Maybe next time, you should send out a bunch of emails with "28008.618" in the subject field and then tell all your readers to look at it upside down. Maybe you'll be able to sell more '3N7@r9m3nT cr34m' then! But make sure you tell them that 'look at it upside down' doesn't mean to stand on their heads or to hang upside down from the shower rod or closet rod - that could be dangerous! You'll have to tell them that it means to turn their computer upside down.

That's an old Internet trick; did you know that? Back in the 80s and 90s when bad newswriters were calling it the "Information Superhighway", there was this thing where if your cursor wasn't blinking, you were supposed to turn your computer upside down until it started again - but here's the joke! You just have to change the display settings to make the cursor never blink! HA! Isn't that funny?

Anyway Monica, tell me more about this penis enlargement thing! It's pretty incredible, because you promised me nine inches, and...here's a secret Monica...I don't even HAVE a penis! Is this like a detachible penis deal? Maybe something I could use one weekends, like those yuppies who have houses they live in only on weekends because during the week they live in condos in the city? That's kind of like a detachible penis, except it's a whole house. A really expensive house. If I had a detachible penis that I could sell on the open market for half a million dollars, I'd do it in a second.

I also want more information about this "stay hard (for her!) all night long!" claim that you make in your email. Don't you think that's a little sex-centric? How do you know I haven't 'gone gay' in the last few weeks since I got your last email? What if I had a nine-inch detachible penis, but I only wanted it to stay hard all night for him? How come all of your advertisement emails just assume your audience is heterosexual? Monica, this is the 21st century. Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they're girls who do girls like they're boys. Always should be someone you really love, I guess.


Which brings me to something I've been thinking of for a while. It doesn't really have much to do with your email, Monica, but I've been thinking about it: The last couple of weeks, I've been very, very pleased to see couples holding hands in the park, and when they walk through the mall. Specifically, I'm very pleased to see gay couples doing so. That makes me very happy.

Anyway, I've probably taken up far too much of your time. You must be very busy, trying to figure out what numbers and symbols you can use for letters in all your emails! You're very good at 733k sp33k. I know it's supposed to be '733t'. I think 733k is funnier, though. Better yet, 73ak. Heh.

Okay, gotta let you go.

One more thing, though - d'you think you could send some of those enh@ncement emails to my EmPee? I'm kind of sick of him acting like he's trying to make up for ...certain shortcomings.

Thanks!
cenobyte

Labels: letters

Dear Diary,

Today, I missed The Captain. He was at a sleepover and then went fishing with his friends at the lake. Today was also the day I got to be a Really And Truly Librarian. I don't know if I've mentioned this before or not, but when I was a much younger cenobyte, I used to play Library. I made records cards, pasted envelopes into books, and kept a log of the books (by title and author - at six, I'd not heard of the Dewey Decimal system). I leant books to neighbourhood children and offered a personal pick-up service. Picture books were leant for a week at a time, chapter books for two weeks. I also leant out board games and other toys. I believe mine was the first library in our city that had comics for borrowing.

So I was excited to get to volunteer at our local library when our Regular Librarian (I am the Irregular Librarian) had a daughter in labour to attend to. I even got to stamp books with the return date!

The Captain has now been on sleepover for precisely 24 hours. I am positive he's having a blast. I must admit to being a little melancholy at how fast the boys are growing up.

In other news. after watching the Discovery Channel's "Destroyed in [relatively few] Seconds", I think perhaps helicopter rides will be much fewer and further between.

Hope the skies stay as blue and brilliant as they have bene these last few days. My birthday usually brings clement weather.

Labels: kids, letters, The Captain

Dear Mum,

You probably know this already, things being what they are. Okay, this is pretty funny, actually. So I was talking to a psychic last night (no, that's not the funny part. Some people go to the bar; some people play MMORPGs (I'll explain that one later); I talk to psychics. It's like sports entertainment Pay-Per-Views), and guess who showed up?

Well, I was kind of expecting you, to be honest, but you're probably in some bonspiel somewhen so you weren't around. ANYWAY, yeah. You'll never guess. No, seriously, you'll never guess. Okay, fine, technically, you *will* probably guess, things being what they are, so I'm just going to tell you.

Great Gram McG!

No, seriously!

I **KNOW**!!

So, when I told my psychic that that was really funny because I was the only person in the family she actually *liked* other than her own pre-marriage-to-Great-Granddad-John A., the psychic said, "oh, she just said 'I *tolerated* her'". And that made me laugh really, really hard, because I remember one time when we were camping with Auntie Isa at Cypress Hills, and Auntie M (yes, I know. It's ironic that I have an Auntie M) was there, and Nama, and you...remember the time y'all got me to plant a pinecone in the dry, dry dust outside the trailer and then pour some whiskey over it and then in the morning, there was a *little wee tree* growing there...(and yes, I'm aware that you all had me utterly convinced that whiskey and my own magic grows trees overnight until I was fifteen)...remember that time? I was pretending to be asleep in the bunk in the trailer and you and the Aunties and Nama were growing trees in your belly with whiskey?

You thought I was asleep. And, as it was wont to do at those times, the conversation in the dark, dry, hot night turned to Gram McG. "Isn't it odd," Nama said, "how that horrible old woman was so keen with cenobyte?"
"Isn't it?" laughed Auntie M. "She hated every other Goddamned person in John A.'s family."
Then the lights in the trailer flickered. Auntie M trotted out to check out the power connection. Ours was the only trailer with flickering lights. She hollered this news in from the place where my tree would grow.
"Jesus Christ, Carrie," Auntie Isa hissed. "We can talk about you all we like now. You're dead, though not long enough."
The lights kept flickering until Auntie M got back in to the trailer. "Always was a vicious old bitch," she laughed. "And you know I'm talking to you!" She said to the air.
The lights stopped flickering.
And you said, "I wonder why she took such a liking to cenobyte?"
And Auntie Isa, the eldest, smiled her powdery, luscious smile and her blue, blue eyes that looked so much like John A's twinkled and sparkled and she leaned forward over the table conspiratorially. She winked over her whiskey and in a stage whisper she announced: "That nasty woman didn't like a goddamned thing. She only tolerated cenobyte because cenobyte was the only one still young enough to believe in witches."

Anyway, I thought it was funny. And I thought you'd enjoy it.

Miss you lots,
love
cenobyte

Labels: ghosts, letters, Mum

An Open Letter to Dr. Jean Grey:

I know you're all effed up, what with the Phoenix Effect and all but *must* you continue to make Colossally Bad Decisions? Scott Summers, in case you haven't noticed, is a complete douche. Trust me. The minute you die, he's going to take off with a scantily-clad whore.

Now, before you go all über PMS Dark Phoenix all over the place, just hear what I have to say. Or, better yet, read what I have to write. It's not your fault Scott is a douche. I suspect he's always been a douche. Jocks who shoot laser beams out of their eyes are like that (I remember high school quite well). But there's a Much Better Choice for you!

Look I don't want to tell you how to live your life; I'm fairly sure I couldn't tell you how to live your life even if I wanted to. It's just that...

Jesus, Jean, Logan loves you. And you couldn't ask for a better guy. He's sensitive, has a wonderful dry sense of humour, he's smart, incredibly sexy (those sideburns could make a nun give up her habits), he has a skeleton of pure adamantium and **he's Canadian**. Honestly. You can't ask for a better guy.

Ditch the jock. He doesn't deserve you.

If you're not interested at all in Logan, then the very least you should do is quit screwing with him. There are plenty of other women out there, me included, who would sell their own grandmothers for a go. Solid adamantium, Jean. **ADAMANTIUM**.

So, in conclusion, I don't want to incur the wrath of the Phoenix, Dark or White, but seriously. Who's going to take better care of you? Logan (James H., whatever) would give his life for you, and has tried more than once. Scott Summers is more concerned with his hair and the inseam cut of his new costume. Sure, he pays lip service to love, but it sure didn't take him long to find someone else after you "died". Some folks say you put that suggestion in his head - to 'find someone else'...and if you did do that, was it ever really love? Would you really WANT the love of your life to choose the White Whore rather than mourn you? What's the MATTER with you?

Okay, I've been kind of cruel here. But honestly. Please don't explode the sun with your wrath. At least, not until the end of summer. I'd hate to have the universe end on a cold, blizzardy day in March.

ADAMANTIUM, Jean. Canadian Adamantium.

Sincerely,
cenobyte

Labels: canadians, letters