When I grow up, I'm going to invent the Phineas Exaggerator Matrix. The concept is pretty simple: the inputs and outputs are lined up in an x-by-x matrix with the usual phineas functions applied. However, the really clever part is that an exo-torpic transform is applied to create a labradal matrix or in laymen's terms, an exaggerated result indirect look-up table for trousers.

See if I don't!

You laugh now, but when the indirect look-up table research community is turned on its head as if a topological indirection was performed using vagrant variable anomalies, you'll remember what I said today and scratch your head in pure, unadulterated terror. You'll yawn and blink your eyes in the grip of fear. It will be a sad day for those of you whose input access calculation terminators haven't been exposed to multiple regression analysis!

You will rue the day...

RUE! RUE, I TELL YOU!

Am I the only one getting the point? We're talking applied phineas functions here, people! Show a little spirit!

Anyway, work is boring, so I thought I would do a little recreational inter-aggregated applied sensitizing computation. My boss hates it when I do that, but he's out of town until Thursday and I'd be remiss if I let the opportunity for therminating trasnwrapping pre-finstrating texolexicalisis to pass by unused. I mean, in a week I'd be kicking myself.

Sometimes I dream of new HTML tags that are utterly useless. My favorite is the <seven> tag. When you put that in your mark-up it is rendered as :

7

I think baristas are hot. I don't know why, but girls who work at Starbucks just get 10 points slapped on to their "Awooooooga!" scale. I know it doesn't make sense, but I never claimed to make sense. Even if I can't see them behind their espresso machine and can only hear their dulcet voice, it makes me all weak-kneed. Am I a pervert or a coffee addict? Or both? But still, who can resist the power of a girl who can operate an industrial espresso machine?

Anyway, I'm thinking about sex too much today. I know what you're thinking: "Guys think about sex too much everyday". You may be right about that, but all I can tell you is that I know for a fact that I am thinking too much about sex today for my own good. I don't want to do things that will get me in trouble.

I love listening to other people type, especially if they are good typists. The sound of the keys clacking trying to catch up with the speed of thought and the occasional staccato of the backspace key as the author of this email rethinks a sarcastic remark. I love the rare but pregnant pause as she takes a sip of tea and the sound of her heavy ceramic mug as it scrapes against her desk. I wonder: will it leave a mark? Will the building manager sigh when he sees the grooves? Or has he lost his passion for office furniture?

Then there is silence as she proof reads interrupted by a throat clearing and then the phone rings. She picks up the phone and answers the questions in a voice which, for those who do not know her, always sounds a little biting and sarcastic. But isn't that the curse of our generation? Hasn't irony become our de facto emotion? Can anyone just be plain spoken today? Or is it naive to say what you mean.

And what do you mean? I love listening to you tell people stories about your life. You don't talk to me too much, which is probably for the best. I'm not such a good talker. I'd rather listen and try to imagine the places you describe. They will never be anything like I imagine them to be, but it's sort of a hobby of mine.

I read your livejournal, but you haven't updated since June. I wonder if I should link to you, but I'm worried you'll find out who I am and I want to maintain anonymity because I think if you knew me better and I knew you better we wouldn't get along. So I'm happy just listening to you type.

Saw a woman walking down the hallway in the office building where I work wearing a jacket that was that shade of blue. I hope she's just visiting someone and will never be back here again. I never want to get used to that shade of blue.

I want to send anonymous emails full of weird stuff to people I only tangentially know.

Reading The Master and Margarita by by Mikhail Bulgakov
Wishing that I get an acknowledgement concerning the resume I sent out last night
Plotting thickening