While I’m technically not on a ward month now, I’m spending about 11 hours a day in the hospital. Which is not as bad as it sounds, I guess. I dig working on the wards a lot better than working in the ED, frankly.

It’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I’m not feeling well, physically speaking.

so I guess the weather really does fuck me up pretty good. I've got to make it a point to move to an apartment that gets better sun exposure than where I live now. hopefully with air-conditioning, especially since direct sunlight will only heat the place up a bit.

I want to write something profound in these last ten minutes before I board the plane, but, as has been the case for a disturbingly long time, the words escape me.

There is this Flash animation that tells the story of a woman who believes God talks to her through Scrabble, which entirely reminds me of a particular scene from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy trilog—or should I say pentology. In that scene, the protagonist of the book, Arthur Dent, who is one of the last living inhabitants of Earth AKA the largest computer in the Universe which was computing the question to the answer of life, the universe, and everything. As is well known, the answer is 42. Unfortunately, the Earth is destroyed right before it figures out the answer, so Arthur decides to see if somehow the answer if encoded in his brain, and he starts blindly picking out Scrabble tiles from a bag. The question that he comes up with is "WHAT DO YOU GET WHEN YOU MULTIPLY SIX BY NINE," leading him to comment that he's always thought that there was something intrinsically wrong with the universe.

One of the symptoms of major depressive disorder. Despite the fact that things are going OK, I still can’t seem to pick myself off from the ground.

Homer Simpson sympathizes with God and understands why the Flood had to happen.

The only reason to not write standards-compliant code is sheer laziness. Everything can be rewritten given enough effort.

Seasonal affective disorder kicks my ass all the time.

Ordered chaos. Deliberate, orchestrated disorder. A quote from Charles Bukowski that backs me up. At least that’s what I tell myself. I may very well be a super genius, or a nascent schizophrenic.

Random garbage spewed on the city streets today.