Heather spent the weekend doing chores and being insanely busy, while I sat on my butt and pretended like I had a clue what I was doing with my ever-growing flock of linux mini-servers and services. She works all week so she can come home and do everything so I can “take it easy.” Who am I to argue?
On Sunday, she baked cookies all day to take to work, so I politely offered to write up a few critter posts to help her get the week started. She happily accepted.
I then immediately forgot the offer I’d JUST MADE and stuck my head right back up the terminal’s command line. Here we are, 36 hours later, and I finally came up for air. (Side note, I was building an even more insane home-streaming system and media empire, and it’s all very technical and very impressive, and it all works and goddammit I am proud of it.)
ohshit.exe the Ork’s brain has crashed; I forgot to write any posts. Hey, it’s still today, so it’s not technically late. Right?
I’ve always done that. I just get too focused and the rest of the world kind of falls away. It’s very nice to have a friendly helper to pull you out once in a while when she realizes that the dead animal smell is coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE.
Speaking of helpers, long ago, we were computer nerds. We still are. But long ago, we also played World of Warcraft (don’t even get me started on the latest news from Blizzard), and every once in a while, one of the cats would get up and “help.”
Enter Wolfie, aka Poofus, the biggest cocksucker of a cat I’ve ever known. He was fuzzy, cute, smart, and he knew it, and his mother loved him more than she loved me (rightly so), so he could (and did) get away with murder on the regular. Sometime around 2005, Heather was playing her druid in World of Warcraft, and she’d assumed cat form, which meant her character had a long, swishy tail.
Wolfie spent a solid hour trying to get at that digital panther’s tail.
I have no doubt that if he’d gotten it, I would have found it in my shoe in the morning.
Cute little asshole.