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February 7, 2002They've found me.
I don't know how, I don't know why, but they're here. After three years of waging the most futile of wars against these insidious creatures and believing I had finally eluded their nefarious grasp, they've managed to catch up with me. Halfway around the world, in the dead of winter, the centipedes have returned.
It's a quiet Thursday evening at home as I sit sipping a chilled bottle of porter, pre-emptively celebrating the completion of my third week of employment. I sit down to work on this humble endeavour you see before you, but cannot find anything in particular I care to ramble on about, so I step outside for a contemplative cigarette. Standing outside the basement back door, peering up at the starless sky, something (a branch swaying in the breeze perhaps?) causes the motion-sensitive light to flick on; there on the wall in front of me, antennae twitching spastically as it searches for its prey in the cool February night, the unmistakable many-legged form that haunted my days and plagued my nights.
Granted, it was but a small one: a mere two-and-a-half centimetres - obviously a reconnaissance unit (also easily distinguishable by its chitinous brown exterior), but a sure sign that the rest of the drones are sure to follow.Guess it's time for that tattoo.
February 13, 2002 Eleven thousand miles in three months. Eleven years of faithful service. Three break-ins, one kidnapping. Several dents, numerous rust patches, various strange and exciting odours. One transplant. Kyoko (my van) is a trooper - always has been. Imagine my shock and dismay as I drove home on Monday night after ultimate and the engine burst into flames.
Well, ok; so it didn't actually burst into flames, but there was indeed a whole lot of smoke and general engine failure going on. Turns out that due to personal neglect, the engine coolant levels had dwindled down to nothing and a radiator hose popped. It only cost a hundred and fifty bucks to fix. What a deal, huh? The service station called to inform me that labour was going to cost 86 an hour - and was that ok?
I think I'm in the wrong line of work. 
Yup. Definitely the wrong line of work.
February 20, 2002 Some lowlife sonuvabitch broke into my van and stole my pink bunny toque yesterday. Angry.
February 27, 2002 Hmm. A bumper month, as far as entries are concerned. It turns out that this whole work/commute/responsibility thing isn't compatible with free time. Who knew? Maybe I can pick up an adaptor or something at Radio Shack.
And it doesn't look like I'm going to be any more prolific for the next little while, either - at least as far as this endeavour is concerned. Unless I can figure out some way of getting my typewriter online, that is. This is not to say that we have reached the end of a beautiful relationship and that I will be bidding you all a fond farewell (far from it) - this only means that your humble host and narrator is without a computer to call his very own at the moment. Odd to think that I've managed to keep this going for almost two years without my own hardware, but truth is stranger than fiction, so they say.
Basically what this all boils down to is anything that does get put up here is going to be pre-processed by my old friend Underwood Five before it presents itself to the piercing gaze of the reader's eye. Hell, it might even get edited somewhere along the way. Wouldn't that be radical behaviour? I tell ya, the next thing you know, there's going to be some quality writing appearing on this page. Then what am I gonna do?Tell you what: if there's anyone out there who'd like to see the drivel continue, just mail me a computer and I'll let my brain drip and dribble 'til your heart's content. Deal?"Hey, that's no way to say goodbye."
- Leonard Cohen
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