Oct. 22nd, 2009

athelind: (Warning: Self-Replicating Device)
I'm a cartographer using the Internet to try to find work.

For years, I've said that the difference between sending out resumes and shouting into an empty cave is that a cave will at least give you the courtesy of an echo.

I've just been misinterpreting the signals! You don't just get an absence of response: it's like a mirror! You send out "MAPS", and what do you get back?


athelind: (Default)
I'm a cartographer using the Internet to try to find work.

For years, I've said that the difference between sending out resumes and shouting into an empty cave is that a cave will at least give you the courtesy of an echo.

I've just been misinterpreting the signals! You don't just get an absence of response: it's like a mirror! You send out "MAPS", and what do you get back?


athelind: (Default)
I may have finally figured out why the current pop culture fascination with zombies does nothing but irritate me.

Ever have to hook a line to a three-month-old sea lion carcass to pull it off the breakwall where it shuffled off its mortal coil?

We had to do that several times a year during my billet at Coast Guard Group Monterey.

Dead, bloated, rotting things trailing gobbets of putrid flesh?

They don't faze me. They don't horrify me.

They annoy me. They represent an unpleasant-but-necessary task, and nothing more.

At the same time, I have a much clearer, more visceral understanding of what such a situation would be like. On an olfactory level, among others.

So, no, thank you, I won't participate in your Zombie Walk, and I don't wanna go see Zombieland.

athelind: (Warning: Biohazard)
I may have finally figured out why the current pop culture fascination with zombies does nothing but irritate me.

Ever have to hook a line to a three-month-old sea lion carcass to pull it off the breakwall where it shuffled off its mortal coil?

We had to do that several times a year during my billet at Coast Guard Group Monterey.

Dead, bloated, rotting things trailing gobbets of putrid flesh?

They don't faze me. They don't horrify me.

They annoy me. They represent an unpleasant-but-necessary task, and nothing more.

At the same time, I have a much clearer, more visceral understanding of what such a situation would be like. On an olfactory level, among others.

So, no, thank you, I won't participate in your Zombie Walk, and I don't wanna go see Zombieland.

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