You know your life has reached a new level of absurdity when you can’t even seem to decide whether you are sleepy or not.

I am serious, I am in a state right now best described as suspended exactly between sleepy and awake. And by that, I do not mean half-sleepy, sort of sleepy, or anything normal like that.

What I mean is that half of me is very, very sleepy, and the other half is not sleepy at all.

At this point, I would much rather be asleep all afternoon and waking up in the usual puddle of flop sweat than be in this maddening half state. I am getting all the pain and distraction and difficulty of being sleepy without the promise of sleep to make it worthwhile.

Because I can’t sleep. Trust me… I tried. But I just could not fall asleep. And I don’t know why. My usual reasons, like my feet are cold or I have too much caffeine in my system, do not apply. It’s too warm a day for cold feet, and I have not had any caff since Friday night. Surely I have metabolized all of it by now.

I suppose it could be worry keeping me awake. I had a mishap with my cheque recently that has me worried and feeling stupid, and that is likely acting as a psychological burr under my saddle.

See, when I took my monthly cheque, the cheque upon which everything depends as my sole source of income, out of the envelope this month, I tore it a little bit. I guess I was a tad too eager to get at the cheque inside and was not careful when I ripped open the envelope, resulting in a rip on the right hand edge of the check.

The rip went down about halfway down the check, and was not even an inch from the right edge.

I did not think much of it. Rips do not matter much on checks. It is not like a tear on a check lets all the magic money powder drain out or anything. So I just stuck the cheque in my wallet, and did not give it any more thought.

But then, when I went to cash the cheque on Friday night, I found that the section of the cheque between the rip and the right hand edge was just plain gone. Somehow, the rip continued and that part of the cheque detached and, as far as I can tell, vanished from this world.

Because I can’t find the damned thing anywhere.

And it makes no damn sense. It had to either detach while it was in between the envelope and the wallet, in which case it should be right here in my room, or detach while in my wallet, in which case the missing piece would still be in my wallet.

But I can’t find it either place. I suppose there is a tiny possibility that it detached while in my wallet then somehow fell out, but that seems highly unlikely.

But then where the hell is it??

And without it, I am going to have to go to the social assistance office and get them to cancel the old check and issue a new one, and lord knows how long that will take, and how much hassle, not to mention the sheer humiliation of having to go to the office and confess what a fucking doofus I am, not even able to take a check out of an envelope properly without fucking it up.

If I found the missing piece, I could just tape them back together and cash it that way. But no. The missing piece is gone forever, or more likely, gone till I don’t need it any more then back to mock me by being in some really obvious place.

Like in said wallet, for instance.

So that is probably what is bugging me and making it hard to sleep. I think the suddenness of the discovery of the problem, plus its public nature, made the whole thing especially traumatic.

I mean, I was right there in front of the Money Mart lady when I found out. I even handed her the broken cheque before realizing there was a piece missing, and pathetically begged her to cash it anyhow.

But the portion missing has one of the two amount values on it, and you need both for a cheque to be legal. I do not blame her for turning me down. The bank would have rejected it and then Money Mart, and her as their employee, would have been on the hook for the dough.

That is too much to expect from a stranger.

But the sudden public humiliation coupled with sudden doubt about my financial future as well as my just not handling the unexpected very well probably all contributed to my worry and stress and depression over the whole thing.

Holy crap…. then again, never give up! I just did one last desperate search of my environs, and low and behold, here is the missing fragment of cheque!

This is one of those moments in life that I feel should be accompanied by the Legend of Zelda “Just got something!” sound effect.

So phew, I will just cash la cheque when I go out for dinner tonight, and all will once more be right with this world, and I can relax.

Now to firmly cement this lack of catastrophe in my mind in order to remind myself that sometimes things work out, and the worst possible outcome is not guaranteed, and life is not so harsh, especially if you can develop a little resiliency and optimism.

And now that the issue is resolved, I suddenly feel all calm and relaxed and sleepy!

Well what do you know about that?

Time for me to take advantage of this pleasant spring day…. and take a nap!

See you later, faithful readers. thanks for helping me talk myself through a crisis!

Today’s almost random topic comes from a very kickass Fishbone song, to wit :

Watching the video, it occurs to me that you almost never see a black guy playing acoustic guitar.

I mean, they must be out there. There must be black folkies. But other than the guy at the beginning of the video I just linked and Tracy Chapman, I can’t think of any.

Hello there all you fine and fancy folks. Here we are between topics again. I suppose this is the default mode of my blog, really. Perpendicular output, that is to say, linear in a way that is rotated ninety degrees from the common plane. It is a straight line through my twisted mind, and hence seems random and meandering to those outside the framing context.

And seeing as the framing context is the inside of my brain, most of you out there can not see it. (And for all you who can, enjoy the show, no refunds, and the management cannot be held responsible for lost items, innocence, sanity, or lunches. )

Today has been the usual quiet Saturday. I am, as per the norm, alone in the apartment while Joe and Julian are visiting with Joe’s family for board games.

Speaking of Joe, it was his birthday yesterday. He is an early Taurus, the sun having only entered that sign a week ago. I am a late Taurus, born May 19, quite near the transition to Gemini, but not as close as my other roomie (and Joe’s love) Julian, born on the 20th.

So we are an all Taurus household. Makes for a quiet, stable home. Just how we like it! Maybe we could use something to shake the place up now and then, but what the heck, nothing is perfect.

And perfection is not as perfect as it used to be anyhow.

Really liked this bit of dark and morbid comedy I found called (for some reason) If I Could Be Sweet by an author calling herself L. K. Shaw.

I love its tone of self-indulgent morbidity and deliberate silliness. It is not the sort of story to take too literally, otherwise you will get bogged down in logistical and logical questions about how is it nobody can tell the narrator is still alive and how she survive the trip in the coffin and so on, and missed out on the fun little romp about life and death and boredom and angst and life in the modern world, where we can get so stuck in our middle class weightlessness that we throw ourselves in front of a train just to feel something besides numbness for once.

To give it my usual highest compliment, I wish I had written If I Could Be Sweet. I certainly find the style and approach extremely appealing, and immediately began feeding large and meaty chunks of it into the vast and seething cauldron marked “MY INFLUENCES” in the middle of my brain.

A lot of people would be offended, I suppose, by how casually it treats things like suicide and death and rituals of mourning and so on. Certainly, if you want to be offended, there are plenty of grounds.

But me, I have a big morbid streak and a pretty sick and twisted sense of humour, and so a story like that is right up my twisted little alley. And who hasn’t wondered who would show up at their funeral,and what they would have to say about you now that you are gone,

It is a supreme bit of egotism, and I have entertained the notion myself many times.

Also under the category of twisted fun, we have this delightful article filled with everybody’s favorite, historical predictions that turned out to be extremely and hilariously wrong.

Here are a few of my faves from the article :

“The horse is here to stay but the automobile is only a novelty–a fad.” – The president of the Michigan Savings Bank advising Henry Ford’s lawyer, Horace Rackham, not to invest in the Ford Motor Co., 1903.

How much you want to bet that said bank president eventually made a sudden disappearance off of the invite list for Horace Rackam’s social calendar once the Model T took off?

But some of these are more understandable. Like take this one :

“Airplanes are interesting toys but of no military value.” – Marechal Ferdinand Foch, 1904.

And that was perfectly true…. in 1904. Even as late as the early days of World War II, it was not clear that airplanes were good for anything but maybe reconnaissance. It takes a very special kind of person to be able to see past the immediate limitations of a new technology and see the possibilities that open up once those limitations are overcome.

And some of these are so idealistic and naive that is practically breaks your heart.

“By the year 1982 the graduated income tax will have practically abolished major differences in wealth.” – Irwin Edman, professor of philosophy Columbia University, 1932.

Oh, if only, Professor Edman. What you failed to foresee is that that money is power, and the people with the money are the people in power, and they will use that power to protect their money and hence their power. One of the fundamentals of human nature is that power seeks to protect itself, and that the people with the power will forever use that power to maintain itself, and to seek more power. The gathering and consolidation of power in fewer and fewer hands is like a fundamental law of the physics of human nature, and the primary opponent in the fight for social justice.

And the fight against corruption, which is basically the same thing. The definition of justice is “the degree to which power equals responsibility”. Perfect justice would mean that justice and responsibility are in perfect balance with one another.

But power without responsibility is the dark dream that is the soul of all corruption, and lurks within the hearts of all people, awaiting only the opportunity to tempt good people into wrong action.

Damn, I should write for Stan Lee.

My life. Random web content. The usual crapola.

Crapola, of course, being the ironically self-aware cut-rate competitor of Crayola. Crapola… because really, who has six bucks for a box of crayons for some dumb kid?

Been trending towards relatively good mood more often than not lately, which is peachy keen cool. I think venting my frustrations with my life at my last therapist’s appointment did me a lot of good. Clearly, I have a lot of stuff that needs to come out, and the emotional constipation that normally prevents that has got to be eased up somehow or that shit is going to kill me.

Don’t worry, that is as far as I am taking that metaphor.

Wait, one more : anyone know the name of a good emotional laxative? And please don’t say “tequila”, liquor is bad news for diabetics.

Okay, now I am done.

Wandering back in the general direction of the last known sighting of the point, I clearly need to internalize the lesson that feeling bad means it is time to vent. There is no point in suffering and feeling crappy and hating my life (I hate my life, by the way) for a long time when the solution is clearly just to get all that negative meshuganah stuff out of my system so that the sun can rise again within my soul.

Activity helps a lot too. I really enjoyed cooking for my roomies Tuesday night, and it made me realize that I actually like to cook. It is just the false negative of lack of motivation that keeps me from doing it more often. Well, that and the old “easier to get motivated to cook for others than for yourself” thing all cooks face.

But depression’s anti-action bias really is a terrible illusion. It makes all activity seem like too much bother and convinces you that whatever it is, you won’t enjoy it, and you will wish you had not even bothered, and so you might as well do nothing.

Heck, it even convinces you that by doing nothing, you are actually coming out ahead, like you almost did something but at the last minute, you decided not to, and really dodged a bullet there. You actually feel smug and smart for going back to lassitude after whole seconds facing the terrifying prospect of actual action. Thank goodness you are so good at completely surrendering at the slightest pressure against your life negating fears! You might have actually changed something.

And this continues even after you have had experiences which give you the exact opposite input as the delusion, namely, things which are quite active that you enjoy greatly and were totally worth the effort you put into it.

You might think that would convince a person that the heavy anti action bias was lying to them when it told them not to do it, you won’t enjoy it, just stay safe.

But no, that same voice defends its grip on your psyche by convincing you that you really did not enjoy it that much, and wasn’t it awful to be so exposed and out in the world for so long, away from your teeny tiny comfort zone, and aren’t you ever so glad you can just crawl back into your hole and pull the lid down tight and go back to the very state you hated before you did something and which you will hate again in just a few minutes.

Again I am reminded of the cartoon I once saw of the prisoner in his cell screaming “Let me out! LET ME OUT!”, but when the cell door swings open on its own accord, the prisoner looks at it in horror then slams it shut so hard the whole room shakes, and then goes back to shouting “LET ME OUT!”.

Psychologically, you might say that he has been a prisoner so long that it has become his lifestyle, his safety, his identity. And when it comes to psychological priorities, absolutely nothing, sometimes not even survival instinct, beats out our urge to preserve our sense of identity. Nothing terrifies us more, and on a deeper level, than a threat to our sense of who we are. People will die, or more likely kill, rather than modify their sense of their own self, especially as they get older.

So one of the biggest challenges facing a depressive, especially one who has suffered from the illness for a long time, is that you have a firmly cemented depressive identity and this is the primary cause of the terrible strength of your anti-recovery responses when people attempt to help you.

This is exacerbated by the extreme emotional conservatism that depression engenders. Depressives have a distinct tendency to feel as though they are just barely holding things together as it is, and therefore absolutely any change threatens their perceived delicate stability.

So they are stuck wanting to get better without anything actually changing because change is bad.

This is, quite obviously, heartbreakingly futile, and it is only when the depressive accepts within themselves that recovery involve changing into a different person that might be nothing like the person you know yourself to be right now.

And isn’t that what you really want? To become someone else?

And part of accepting the need for you, yourself to change… not your circumstance, not your income, not your luck, but you yourself… is the realization that there is no point waiting around to feel like doing something that you known damned well you will never ever feel like doing.

Just do it, especially if it is something you know you probably will enjoy once you get started. Summon up all your will and reach for the happiness. Reach out and grab it. Use it to pull yourself out of your hole. Forsake the comforts of depression’s deep cold snowdrift bed and instead go to where you can feel the sun on your skin and breathe clean clear air.

Remember, it is the comfort and safety that is killing you.

More intense sleep. Kinda of thought I might be out of the woods on that, but as it turns out, not so much.

Had some pretty messed up dreams, and as I only woke up from them five minutes ago, I still remember something about them.

I know that I was planning some kind of dinner (rather like I am doing in RL, actually), and I was feeling kind of stressed about that, and then things kept going wrong and I got angrier and more frustrated with the situation. The last straw was when I suddenly realized I had gotten distracted and was too late to have the meal I had planned be on time, so I rushed to the kitchen only to find my mother was cooking it for me and clucking her tongue and saying the meal was ruined because I had bought the wrong things. Very little angers me more than having something taken away from me because I am doing it wrong. How am I supposed to learn dammit?

And here I was with a house full of people, including a bunch of recent friends of Felicity, a gaggle of older British women. I got so angry that I punched the fridge door… thus knocking it completely off its hinges. That did not improve my mood.

I was so mad by that point that I decided to do something highly uncharacteristic, and go for a walk i order to work off the excess steam.

As I leave the house, I notice that there’s a news crew outside, getting read to do a shoot with my house as a background. I am too keyed up to slow down and ask questions, but even in a dream, this strikes me as somewhat unusual.

And as I walk along, I encounter more of these news crews, and I catch a snatch of what one reporter is saying. Something about how a specific piece of emergency/disaster legislation has been activated, meaning my neighborhood is now officially a disaster area.

I just roll my eyes at this, figuring this is media fearmongering. As far as I can tell, everything is normal. It’s raining a little, and that is about it. I notice that some of the news crews even have snow machines set up to make their footage seem more “real”.

And as I walk along, I see that some of my neighbors have set up their own snow machines and frozen hail machines on their own front lawns (why do we all have these? I dunno ) as a kind of sarcastic statement on the media hype and government reaction and so on.

My original intention had been to just walk around the block, but apparently, my neighborhood is quite a bit less than gridlike, and I eventually notice that it has gotten quite dark out and I have no idea where I am now.

At this point, the dream switches gears, and I go from being angry to being somewhat worried, and the landscape switches from streets to a sort of suburban jungle of back yards and fences and the backs of homes and so on.

Interestingly, also at this point, a voiceover monologue starts speaking in my head in a voice which is not my own. Sort of sounded like Bruce Campbell, to be honest.

And Bruce was saying things like “I wondered how I was going to find my way home” and, while I was looking at something that looked like a factory off in the distance, “All I could remember was the way back from the dike trail where I had met her. I wonder what she would have thought of me that night if she had known that I had no idea where I was. ”

Kinda noir. I would love to see Bruce Campbell as a noir detective, wouldn’t you?

That is more or less when the dream ended. Too bad, that was getting interested. And I am fascinated by yet another dream which involves me getting incredibly angry. Must be a venting thing. We talked a lot about all my deep seated unexpressed anger today in therapy. I am guessing that part of the dream was my mind’s way of coping with the emotions that brought up.

Let’s see… no surprises at the GP’s office. My blood sugar is hella bad. It is some form of injection for me in the future. Either insulin (ick) or this stuff called Victoza. The doctor showed me the thing i would use to inject myself, and I was glad to find I would not have to learn to find a vein or anything like that. Just pick a piece of low sensitivity skin, and poke.

That is good, because I have hard to find veins and I am very clumsy and have poor eyesight to boot. So there is no way I could inject myself if it was that kind of injection. I was kind of hoping the device would be spring loaded, so all I had to do was press a button like with the lancet device that I use when I test my blood, but no dice.

Still, it is not quite so horrible a prospect as I had assumed. If the Victoza is covered, I will be on it. If not, insulin (ick).

Plus, the television situation has improved somewhat. Joe was nice enough to replace the tiny little TV with the larger one he had in his bedroom for bedroom use. It is still not as big as the previous TV, but it is still a good size.

So my Netflix and Wii games are not quite so compressed.

Therapy made me aware of how I need to deal with all this rage and hate inside me from all the pain I have experienced in my life. And not just vent it in dreams.

I have no idea how to do it, thought I want to very badly. It would be so nice not to be carrying this raging firestorm inside.

But who knows? Maybe that is what makes me such a warm guy.

Once more, the space where I keep ideas of what to write about is conspicuously empty. I am definitely feeling a little dopey and stunned lately.

Then again, I have been having one of my Sleepy Days, and those tend to fry the old noggin up pretty darn good. Lots of really deep sleep with long stretches of intense dream activity and waking up covered in sweat and feeling like I just ran a marathon through Hell.

So, the usual thing.

In fact, a little harder than usual. These prize fights with Mister Sandman have been taking an even heavier toll than usual. I judge this by the fact that I felt even more beat down than usual upon waking, and especially because I was quite conscious of wanting to wake up and not being able to do so in several of my dreams.

It was sort of like being sedated. In the dreams, I was suddenly aware of feeling very heavy all over, and I awoke feeling like I had only managed to escape the dreaming world with considerable effort, and possibly only because it let me go.

That always bothers me a little bit. It offends my sense of control and freedom to think that sleep can hold on to me even when I feel like coming back to reality. I resent anything that traps me.

Then again, I probably really need the sleep. I mentioned before that I had been having lousy quality sleep lately, fitful and restless and unsatisfying, and that I was almost looking forward to the next big sleep crash.

Well, it came today, and it has been a lulu. And yet, the in between times have not been unpleasant. I have eaten and watched stuff and gone to the bathroom like usual, not feeling bad at all. If anything, I felt sort of pleasantly sleepy. You know, that cozy kind of feeling you get when you are all sleepy and going through your bedtime routine and looking forward to slipping between the sheets and surrendering to sleep for the night?

I am provisionally taking this as more evidence that I am learning to just accept, and maybe even enjoy, these sleepy periods. After all, I had nothing to get done today, no hard scheduled events that would have required me to fight the sleepiness and pull myself together and focus, and that is where the big stress comes in.

Instead, I just relaxed and let it all happen to me, no big deal, just another sleepy day. And so hopefully, by tomorrow, when I will have hard scheduled things like a therapist session and a doctor’s appointment, I will have banked up enough sleep to make my appointments without too much trouble and stress.

Speaking of the doctor’s appointment, I am not looking forward to it. The appointment was not my idea, although I was not surprised when my doctor’s office called up to make it. See, they called Friday morning because they had gotten my test results from last Tuesday, and that can only mean my test results were not very good.

That does not surprise me. I imagine my Type II diabetes is raging out of control. I have been trying to modify my diet so that it has way less carbs ever since the Zombie Finger incident. But I keep forgetting and going back to old bad habits.

I really suck at taking care of myself. Neglecting oneself as one was once neglected. Bad.

So I am not looking forward to this appointment. I rather feel like a kid who just got called to the principal’s office. You might not know exactly what for, but you know it can’t be good.

And I know my condition is bad. The little orange pills I am on do not do a damn thing to help control my condition. I really miss my Avandia. That, plus the other two diabetes meds I take pretty much had the condition licked. But then Avandia got taken off the shelves for some kind of liver problems, at which point I should have immediately gone back to a very strict low carb diet like I had right after my diagnosis…. but I did not.

Instead, I just kept eating the same way. And still living the same extremely sedentary lifestyle wuth almost zero exercise. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The depression makes it so hard to change, though. I have to cling to what small pleasures I can afford because there is precious little pleasure in my life, and pleasure is what we all need in order to avoid the pitfalls of depression.

We need pleasure in order to maintain our sense of well-being. We cannot survive emotionally without our pleasures. And we depressives need them more than anyone else. That is why were are so prone to addictions, be they chemical, sexual, or in my case, just plain digestive.

The key is the reward center of the brain. Whatever activates that is prone to becoming the depressive’s route to self-medication and addiction. In a way, the activation mechanism is secondary. The real problem is the low serotonin levels in the brain, which put the mind into a sort of emergency state not unlike starvation, with a similar brutal simplification.

What matters is what activates that reward center and keeps the serotonin levels from being even more catastrophically low. The long term health of the organism is irrelevant. Like people adrift at sea driven by maddening thirst to drink seawater, even though they know it will likely kill them, the depressive is driven to repeat the long term unhealthy behaviours by the dire ferocity of the short term need. We drink the poison that will kill us tomorrow in order to make it through today.

And the thing about being addicted to food is that everyone can see the product of your addiction hanging from your body in a huge bulbous mound of lard.

And every place that sells food is your pusher.

Being fat sure as fuck ain’t easy. But getting thin is way harder.

And so we just die young. Like I probably will do.

I sincerely have no idea what to write tonight. So I guess we will be just taking our words for a walk and seeing where the heck we end up this time.

I am just as excited about this as you are.

Today has been dull. But is the good kind of dull that I have come to enjoy on Saturdays. Last night was dinner at Denny’s (oft maligned but we love it) , and tomorrow night we will likely eat out at ABC Country Kitchen (great place for “normal” food and they make a good pot roast so many hearts from me), so today acts as a nice pause between social days. I can relax, regain my social energy (very important for us introverts), and spend a quiet night at home while Joe and Julian go play board games with Joe’s family.

There is definitely something different about having the apartment to myself for an evening. Not that Joe and Julian are loud roomies. We would never get along if they were. All three of us are quiet, bookish types who dislike loud noise, so just by following our own preferences, we keep things quiet for one another as well.

It’s nice how that works out.

But still, as quiet as we all are, we do still make noise, and so having the apartment all to myself for an evening makes for an extra quiet night, with nobody else in my social space at all, and for one night an evening, that is very nice indeed.

I guess that even living with other introverts is not quiet enough for my introverted nature and I truly need time with a completely empty social sphere in order to fully recharge.

That might be part of why I always feel better after being out on my own for a while, like when I take the bus back from an appointment or something. Being out on my own is almost the same as having an empty social sphere, because while I am not alone, there is nobody I know around.

That is how I can be someone with social anxiety who nevertheless does not mind crowds at all. You are anonymous in a crowd. You are not socially interacting with anybody except in a very peripheral sense. So it is kind of the same as being alone.

At least, that is how it is in my reality instance. Your instance will have its own local variables and hence may produce different results.

Wow, after three days of coasting on the news, thinking up things to write seems like so much work now.

It does not help that I am feeling fairly tired. My sleep has been total crap lately. I am actually sort of looking forward to my next crash, because even though they suck big time, I will at least eventually get some decent sleep. Lately all my sleep has been fitful and unsatisfying. It really feels like nothing at all, like I did not really sleep, just… lost time. Just laid there not doing anything while the hands of the clock turned into a blur.

So I have been feeling tense and nervous and restless lately. Restless indeed.

In local news, our big screen television, a gift from Joe’s parents, seems to have finally given up the ghost. You try to turn it on and it tries to warm up the tube like normal, but it just never gets there. The little power on light just blinks three times, then nothing. Over and over again.

It is sad to see.

The sudden death of our big TV has really given me a serious case of the “Don’t Know What You Got Till It’s Gone” blues. Its departure from this mortal realm has really made me aware of just how central to our lives it was.

Every day, I spend hours watching videos via Netflix and playing games on the Wii. When my friends and I get together, we spend the whole time watching DVDs and VHS tapes. Joe, Julian and I spend four weekend mornings per week watching the Daily Show and Colbert together, plus stuff from the DVD collection like X-files and Sanctuary. All of it is done via that lovely big TV.

And I highly doubt that we can afford to buy one on our own. We only got the one we had because Joe’s parents bought a newer, bigger, better TV and gave us their old one.

I somehow doubt they will be doing that again any time soon.

So now we are stuck watching TV on a tiny tabletop TV, the sort of thing you would stick on a dresser in your bedroom. Not quite appropriate for living room use, but it beats the hell out of having no television at all.

So if this truly is your last hurrah, Big TV, if your tube truly is dead and therefore it would cost more to fix you then to buy a new one, then rest in peace knowing you gave us many many house of lovely big picture enjoyment.

No wonder it wore out. We used that thing all the damned time!

Watching TV on the little one is… an adjustment, but the mind compensates fairly rapidly. it is not like I am squinting and wondering what is going on now.

There is just a lot less detail.

Playing games on the Wii is slightly more of an adjustment. I am still enjoying the hell out of playing Spider-Man : Shattered Dimensions for the Wii. It is such an awesome game that I am covered in sweat with a racing heart when I am done playing. It is literally pulse pounding excitement for me.

In fact, I would be enjoying it even if it did not star my number one guy, Spider-man. But getting to me him, web-slinging around and laying the smack down on bad guys and tossing out hilarious one-liners, makes it a nearly transcendent experience for me.

Too bad I have to play it on a (relatively) tiny screen now.

Seeya tomorrow, folks!