Oh, Right, I Have A Blog...

Um. Yeah. Forgot

Heh.

(CrapI'mgonnahavetomaketwopoststodaytofittheschedual - all worship the schedual)

So...

Yeah. We all knew this would happen. I have a good excuse, though!

Give me a moment

It will come to me anytime now....

Okay, I forgot. Sue me. It happens.

Anyhow, here I am - about to go to sleep and needing to type up a post.

We've all been here before. Trapped. Needing, desperately, that one point where we have a lucid moment to produce something workable, and yet - we are caught flat footed.

Some of us work through it. Others procrastinate.

Some, like me, take the third option of giving the viewers something, pretending it is decent, then sneaking out the back.

Don't knock it. It is how the writers of Heroes have produced the last few seasons.

On the other hand, knock it.

So anyhow, I put up something. Nothing good. But something. Now to get to the sneaking out the back part of things...

Skittles and ponies!

For Your Consideration / My Record Holding (version 2)

I've told this story elsewhere. But something has recently made it come to mind for me again.

A few days ago, someone at work was cut by a sheet.

A sheet.

Yes, and this dangerous thin-weave cloth was checked over carefully by several folks, to find out what dangerous teeth and claws it was hiding. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was a sheet, and as offensive as any peice of fabric gets, which is to say not very. Certainly nothing was on it that could possibly be called an edge or a point. Yet it managed to leave a respectable hole in a coworker.

I have, over the years, been injured a lot at work. I once had someone remark to me after a long weekend, that she couldn't remember a week when I hadn't been cut or jabbed or otherwise hurt. For a relatively static job, that's something. But it is never the dangerous things that get me. Never knives, or falling objects, or, you know, stuff that happens near me that should by all rights send me to the hospital. So I have some regrettable experience with bleeding at my job. Usually it's from the things that shouldn't hurt me that I receive cuts. (Or falling out of things, but that is a story for another time.)

Don't believe me? Heh. In my tenure at the place I work (hereafter known as Soar), I have been cut or injured by many strange things. I have received minor cuts from balls, by blankets. I had to pry a splinter nearly half an inch long from a old wood toy out of my hand once. A pillow once made me bleed. I will bear the scar from a sofa to my dying day (its a small scar, but still. A sofa.) A coffee mug gave me a cut that took eleven stitches to close. Other minor injuries include doors and one very irritable chair. I have embedded small bits of glass in my flesh more than a few times, and there was that incident with the book.

Ever get a cut from a book's leather cover? I have.

I can take these. They don't bother me. Most have reasons behind them. The ball had glass embedded. (Glass hurts me often - as does ceremic.) The pillow, needles. The sofa did its work on me with a staple, and the full weight of its steel reinforced sleeper frame behind that staple digging in. The coffee mug shattered in my hand and a shard passed through the finger. The blanket...

Well, okay. No one knows how the damn blanket cut me. But that one is weird enough that it isn't pathetic, its more a file for the bizzare.

Seeing why, as weird as a sheet cutting someone, I am not more amazed?

The worst though, and the record of the oddest object to every cause a person to bleed? I still hold that one.

That's because, about a half a year ago I was cut by a Hello Kitty Pez Dispenser.

You read that right.

More, there was no conceivable way for it to cut me. It wasn't broken. No part of this thing was hard or pointed. There were no sharp edges. There were barely edges! I can't even recall corners that weren't rounded off. You could hand this to a kid, and he'd be safe from everything except eating Pez.

How the hell does one live down being injured by a Hello Kitty Pez Dispenser? I mean, its got a big cute rounded plastic cat head for chrissake.

This is the rock bottom of injuries. This makes paper cuts look noble.

Sorry, distracted.

Anyhow. Some places, it seems anything can be a surprise. Also, next time you get injured, stop and think, "Hey, as bad as this is, it could be worse. A sheet could have done this to me." Or, god forbid, a Hello Kitty Pez Dispenser.

Unless, of course, you think you can top it?

Isomnia

I do not like spring.

Well, perhaps that is an overstatement. I do not like spring as much as I do winter. Or autumn. Summer... I suppose it ties.

Yes, I like cold. Yes, I am allergic to mold, dust, and pollen, which makes spring a special kind of trial for me. Frankly, like most people allergic to large swathes of earth's plant life, I find a certain joy in morning frost. But more striking is the system shock of sudden warm nights, and what it does to my sleep schedual.

I have always been an insomniac. Not that bad of one, really. Exhaustion will usually get me a decent few hours of sleep a night. After a week the four to two hours a night catches up, and I get a real nice, long rest. Then there is the first month of Spring.

I don't sleep well in the heat. It tends to make me stay awake as, if not more, effectively than caffiene or pain.

Last night was warm. Last night, I did not sleep.

After dawn, I got about thirty minutes of sleep. I managed, through various means, to acquire forty more here and there during the commute and waiting for work to start. All of this was extremely shallow sleep. I doubt I got down to the lower layers of unconsciousness - little to no REM, and stage five sleep? Ha. Too scattered and desolute for that.

Then I got an eight and three quarter hour work shift.

It is days like this that I consider to be erosive to the soul. Certain incidents along the way were also very bad. Maybe we'll be exploring those later, but on exhaustion's edge they certainly didn't help.

I had a long day. I have now been awake approximately thirty three hours to an hour and fifteen minutes of sleep over the last two days.

But hey, got in that third blog post this week. All worship the schedual.

Anyhow, just checking in. Now I am going to go curl into a ball and go comatose somewhere. I hope.

Final Fantasy XIII Early Impressions

So sue me, I am desperately seeking a topic and I love me my video games.

Okay. So I knew that people would be not liking this game. I can see why. Final Fantasy XIII is a departure, even more so than usual. Which is the first thing that sends a fanbase into a rabid frenzy. Change something, alter a good formula, hell - switch artistic styles (look at the folks who raved lun about Wind Waker), and some group of the fanbase will start screaming an waving signs.

So, in a series that always changes something big time every time, they apparently decided XIII would be a lucky number to alter as many things as they could. I kid not. Battle system? Entirely different - only a couple other games that I have ever played is anything like it. Game combat is fast paced, largely automated (until it isn't - SURPRISE!), tactical in the extreme, occasionally unforgiving (read the tutorial that sort of makes sense, then figure the rest out), and resembles nothing else in the series. Hell, so far it only vaguely resembles anything in any series I have seen. It is terribly rigid in places that I am used to flexibility, and fluid where I am used to order. It keeps me on my toes, true, but it is also nearly a system shock. It is the familiarity equivilent of juggling on a moving mopad. I am sure it is very easy if I get used to it, but until then I shall enjoy careening about with the occasional 'incident'. I am enjoying the flow of the encounters (I think. Probably) and I still twitch a little. I am an accepting person.

In a bit more detail, the combat is... active. Ever play Dragon Age: Origins? It is almost nothing like that. But chances are, Dragon Age is the closest battle system to FFXIII you've ever played, so keep it in mind. All damage is healed between battles. There are no magic points, technique points, etc, your characters just do what they can. You imput skills to use for your leader, or have the computer figure a set on the fly - and your companions are technically entirely out of your control and doing whatever the heck they like. You have only the most marginal, theoretical control over what two thirds of your party is doing at any given time. Which occasionally leads to screaming at the fricken' incompetents. Meanwhile you are trying to juggle what roles they are supposed to be doing, whatever the character you are controlling is doing (What is my leader doing? Staring at the bad guys? Again? FRACK), and keeping track of sixteen other little details wizzing past. Plus, it is in HD. My TV is not HD. My TV is BD - stands for blurred definition. Damned if I can read half of what pops up on the screen. Of course, all dialogue is now spoken - no message windows - so that isn't as bad, but it makes battle information interesting (little bar says I am dying, I just wish I knew what the hell the little numbers up there said, little bar tell me what you are saying!) I can only imagine this gets better. I mean, it isn't like any of this is new. Okay, the paradigm thing is - and those roles are going to drive me bugscrew - but even they have some precident if you squint. But it is like the Constitution back in the 1700s. Nothing really new there, but put it all together and step back and go, 'Well then. That's gonna be interesting.' So. Combat is jarring, but it usually goes by fast before it drives you madder than staring into the face of Chluthu-

Can I see the fanbase shatter into a thousand pieces arguing about this? You betcha.

Also, the story. It's good qualities I will get to later. Let's talk about the bad, first.

This game is a rail RPG so far. Its a very, very good rail RPG. I am liking it. But RPGs, you usually expect to explore, to see the side road. To find your own strength. FFXIII? Welcome to point A. Look at the line. It will take you to point B. Have fun with that. The game is linear as a novel in its early stages. Interactive to a degree (and novels, whatever else, rarely go 'in this battle the team were horribly eviserated because the reader is an inattentive moron - go back two pages and read better next time') but you will be walking more or less forward a lot in this game. Primarily to get away from what is behind you, but there is nothing to either side, and every time I have doubts about this game, its because my gamer's instinct wants to go sideways. Wants to explore.

I can't. For everything I am enjoying, there is a limit to how much I can embrace walking from point A to B. Thankfully it is getting better the further I go, like combat. The first two chapters combat was not only the odd, rigid but fluid system that caught me flatfooted and still does, it was also exceedingly simple. Then fighting, lacking a better term, went bugscrew on me and I am still plumbing its new, strange depths. Hopefully sooner or later, the linearity will go bugscrew on me. Heck, FFVI - originally FFIII in America - was fairly linear right up until its entire second half where you basically had to sail off an island, get a ship, and destroy a madman gone god. Everything else was optional - including making sure that two thirds of your party survived the apocalypse, and getting ready to have a chance in hell of surviving the last place. In other words, half the dang game was optional. It was the plotline equivilent of a tree - fairly straight at the bottom where everything is trunk, then a sudden, vast branching. Final Fantasy Sidequest - and often considered best in the series. So, I am crossing my fingers that bugscrew linearity will happen again, in FFXIII. Here is hoping.

But to the good parts of the story, it is compelling. This is a fairly well realized world we are talking about here. There is depth and complexity in what is happening, and the fact that the game starts on what is essentially the thirteenth day after some mysterious ball started moving, it more or less whispers to you, "we now begin your game on hour fifty. Catch up or die." You join the story in media res as a conspiracy to massacre a city starts to fall apart as resistance and defiance and desperate last stands derail a holocaust already in motion. You follow a soldier and a pilot, who quickly are revealed to be strangers to each other, and uncomfortable companions at best, as they make their way across elevated rails and floating switchbacks, watching a doomed citizenry try to save themselves - too late, it seems - from a world that has suddenly become murderously hostile to them. The soldier, a caucasian woman with the assumed name of 'Lightning', and the pilot, a jive, gangy black man with a big afro housing a bird named Sahz, are helpless to do much beyond keep themselves alive. This is painful to Sahz, as much as he tries to hide it behind good cheer. He has got a reason, not yet voiced, to stay alive and free regardless of the cost and so follows the vetern fighter as she carves her way through the smoke and gunfire. Lightning - not so much pained by the tragedy around her. She's got bigger concerns... someone to save, something to kill.

Elsewhere, a young rowdy with a hero complex named Snow and his band of militia / amateur monster hunters have also broken out of their trains and become the core of one of the largest knots of resistance. He arms former citizens and leads them against and army. It is very brave and incredibly badly thought out - like much of what Snow does. He wins some victories. He gets a lot of people killed doing so. One of them is a middle aged mother. She saves his life. He can't return the favor. Her last words, a plea for him to save someone important to her, visibly break open the bravado that gets Snow through most of his waking hours. The wounds mends, but not entirely. Occasionally it breathes enough that you can see big, brash, impetuous Snow convulse with the scar of maturity.

Not far away, a teenager named Hope (a boy. I don't think school was much fun for him with that name) is watching, and sees Snow get his mother killed. This does bad things to Hope's mental equilibrium. He wants to give Snow a piece of his mind. Or maybe kill him. It is hard to tell, and not because it isn't clear. It's because Hope is a teenager, and the the whole marked for death thing was already blowing his mind. He isn't coping, and when wracked with rage or indecision, the way his entire world has crumbled rings through. Perching on his shoulder, egging him on and further mindscrewing him about every ten minutes, is a teenage girl named Vanille. She's a ditz, a flirt. She's jailbait and sunny innocence. She's also calculating. How much of what she appears to be is real, I don't know. But despite her many goofy, fluff brained actions, occasionally there is a very serious, very solemn narrator who clarafies points across the fourth wall. We the players need only to watch carefully, and we know it is her. But if that is the real her, then she's faking with her every moment in the party. The game lets the player know they've never seen Vanille's real face. Then let that thought slide away. I'm waiting for the payoff. I wonder if she's the villain.

Or maybe the real hero.

Anyhow, across this battlefield the five characters make their way. Hunted, shot at. Heading to the thing that caused it all - a divine/demonic being with the power to bind mortals to its will. Just encountering this thing doomed a whole city to being 'Purged', being massacred quietly. It can take anyone who comes near it, marking them with a geas, a task they must perform. Those who fail it become monstrousities. Those who serve it well are made into immortal stone. A bad bargain at best. Lightning wants to kill it. Snow wants to save someone from it. But if you reverse the names, you'd still be in the right. Sahz, Hope, Vanille? Complete strangers to each other, to those two. But drawn along.

Then bound together in a fell contract that will force them to function as a group for a purpose they can't even make out. Their world wanted them dead before they became tools for a monster, just on the off chance they might have been what they now certainly are.

This a well told tale so far. Even better with the characterizations, since all five characters have their own motives, their own personalities. They don't always work together well (or at all). These people don't know each other, and the dynamics of their group show it, and do so with a superb skill that sells all the rest. Party interact is pitch perfect, and it makes everything else click.

Most games tell stories. It is a large chunk of the point. That FFXIII has a story good enough that I am, currently, completely and totally fine with the alien architecture of the system, says a lot for it.

Granted, I am not that far in. Plenty of time for it to get better or worse.

Bad Signs for Romance

Stumbled across a book today. Been laying around in my reading pile, and its one of the odd ducks - not something I bought in my usual lines. It is one of the texts I picked up because it looked so different I just had to read it. In this case, because it sounds so quirkly. It is called 'How to Spot a Bastard By His Star Sign' and with a name like that you can bet it is not exactly a book which is overly rosy in its view of my gender. Basically it is joke astrology, pointing out just how men of each sign are horrible wrecks of humanity, broken in truly terrible ways. And how to romance them, or at least resign oneself to the best of a bad lot. As literature goes, it skates close enough to the gender line that, if it was a man writing about women, chances are it would procede the lynching of some male author somewhere. It is irreverent, spiteful, and you can read enough disgruntlement in some chapters that you think this is less a joke than therapy after some truly spectacular bad relationships.

I find it hilarious.

Particularly as I am a Virgo. Usually this, astrology wise, sees me pegged as... excuse me, going to go to one of my lifelines for this - ah, yes, as 'very picky, shy, smart and very self critical' (thanks Moony! [was sort of hoping perceptive was in there somewhere {sigh}])

How was I to know that I was more? Romantically, at least. Virgos, as described by the book, are one good push from obsessive serial killers. That's right folks. I (and approximately twelve percent of the male population) am apparently Dexter - or at least a trundling cart heading down the hill in that direction. Not to mention that I apparently have some obsession with ice picks I never knew about (wow, you really do learn something new about yourself every day, huh?). Cough. Anyway. I am a budding socio/psycopath (well, at least it proves that all those people who think that my smile is creepy right). I don't quite believe it, but the authors gave a convienent checklist to see just how much the Virgo is, well, Virgoian. Let's see how I stack up!


Item one:
"[Virgo bastards] enjoy repeating the same tedious task in the same mind-numbing fashion."

Um. Okay. They've seen me at work.

Well, that's not fair. I don't enjoy that. But I will occasionally take up a 'tedious' or far more often a pointless task, and repeat it ad nauseum. I will admit to sometimes enjoying this. Even data entry. That's right. You heard me. Occasionally I enjoy data entry. Does that make me so evil?!?

....

On second thought, don't answer that. Moving on!

Item two:
"[Virgo bastards] have an unhealthy obsession with the little details - details normal people can't be bothered with because they've got lives."

Okay. Fair enough. I'll give them that one.

I do have a life though. It just isn't... very exciting. At times. But details are good! There is a devil in them too, apparently. Cough. Anyhow, anyone who doesn't pay attention to details is just asking to be caught by one someday and I am just digging the pit deeper so moving on -

Item three:
"[Virgo bastards are] too thick-skinned to notice people crossing to the opposite side of the street when they see [them]."

UNTRUE. A: Only once has anyone ever done that. Twice, max. And I am old enough that such a thing means - oh, wait, are we counting instances of this that happen on Halloween? Okay, then people do that to me a lot. But only on a certain holiday, and they're scared-y cats anyway! Maybe it is the creepy laugh. The trench coat. The axe. But seriously, most people have a lot more folks running screaming from them than I do. Also B: We aren't thick-skinned at all.

Do this to a real Virgo of either gender, and we'll obsess about it. For days.

Item four:
"[Virgo bastards] write checklists to ensure that [we] do everything [we] keep threatening to do."

No...

But...

My, what a fascinating idea.

... ahem... Later, later.

Anyhow, as you can see I only fit half of these which means I am either not yet a perfect Virgo (bummer) or not a bastard (internet quizes have lied to me!?) or the authors are wrong (le gaspe!). Which is sorta depressing. Particularly as the dangerous, edge of murder Virgo they describe has a better social life than I currently do. (Let's not explore that.) Certainly a better romantic life. And more ice picks.

I wish I had an ice pick.

I will have to explore this further. There may be wisdom to be gained from this. Still, food for thought...


(Author's note. This blog post contains quotes from 'How to Spot a Bastard By His Star Sign' by Adele Lang & Susi Rajah, copyright 2002, from St. Martin's Press. It's a funny book, and highly amusing even if you are [perhaps especially if you are] an actual male bastard. Go buy it. And if you are Adele Lang or Susi Rajah - please don't sue me)

Today Was Not Easy

So. Another long day at work. Though, granted, it was a little different than usual. Most long days are, well, what you'd expect. Lots of contrast between that which one must uphold and the demands being made on oneself, wearying people, the slow drudgery of a bleak season. You know, the typical Saturday. Big sale, too, so extra fun there.

After seven and a half hours of this (well, seven, not counting lunch which was its own lovely situation that we will not be discussing aside from the note that nothing today was simple even including the procurement and comsumption of foodstuffs) I was more than a little elated to have my break happen.

Break is great. I get to go for a walk.

Most might argue that seeing how big a circuit one can walk on a measly fifteen minutes isn't much of a break. But I find wind soothing, quiet (or at least as quiet as a small city / large town gets) relaxing, walking enjoyable, and all that. Plus, if I am out on a hike - however short - no one can find me. It is very hard for coworkers to interrupt your break if you are a block and a half blocks away. So I walk somewhere - in this case a little distance down main street.

In this I get to learn that it is a fun day not just at work. I see no fewer than three emergency vehicles. One is passing down the road (ambulance) in quite a hurry, while a police car and a fire truck have blocked off a road I wander past. Why, precisely, I haven't the foggiest, but it added just a bit of surreality to my trip. Not so much though, as when I was heading back. About a third of the way back into the shopping center where my place of employment resides, I come up on a 7-Eleven. There is a bunch of cars oddly parked at the corner of the little conveince store. One was a van, to the left of all the parking spaces, and on that little triangle of white lines that everyone knows means no parking. Next to that a little sedan - four door, but while I think it was silver god if I can tell for sure. I see one loud, belligerent man coming from the silver sedan shouting at another, who seems to be in the last available parking space that neither of the other two vehicles quite got into. The man from the sedan is loud, belligerent, obviously heading into a good rage. Odd, but not (unfortunately) that strange. Then I see him opening his trunk.

I think, honestly, that as angry as he sounds, he is getting ready to help. Maybe his odd parking job, the odd parking of the van or SUV or whatever that big thing is next to him, it means they are in trouble. Maybe he is trying to help and irritated that he has to. Some people are like that. Perhaps he's getting jumper cables or a jack or a spare tire out of his trunk. He's being a good citizen. I think this, and my world, while somewhat hard for the day, is normal.

The loud angry man pulls a rifle out of his trunk. He opens it up, checks to make sure it is loaded, then snaps it closed. I am not close enough to get all his angry shouts - he is loud mostly through emotion, rather than volume. But some words leak in. 'You', 'don't', 'me', 'my', and I think 'place' or 'space'. I may be wrong - I really do not know the answer. But he points that rifle at the man he was harranging. I honestly believe that he is thinking of killing him. Over what, lacking any other ideas in my head, is a parking space.

I wish I could say I did something brave and stupid at this point. I didn't.

I walked past, not speeding up or slowing down, and once past a couple cars cut in, went directly into the 7-Eleven and told the guy behind the counter, "You have a gentleman threatening another man with a rifle in your parking lot." I got no reply. I think they thought I was joking. I do that, sometimes, and they know me and I know them. I had to repeat it a second time, seriously, and I did. I was calm. I did not break into any kind of hysterics. I am proud of that much of my conduct at least. The second repetition did it, too. Both the clerk at the register and the other clerk in the store paid attention. The second clerk walked up to the front and we looked over, but the second car misparked, the SUV or van or whatever it was, it blocks any view. But it looks like maybe the sedan is gone. We haven't heard any gunshots.

It has been less than a minute, but it is probably over. The clerk beside me, senior to the fellow behind the counter, goes with the basic thought that it didn't happen in his store, he saw none of it, and it seemed to have blown over - not his problem. For all he knows, I am making it up. I have no idea. Thinking about it from his perspective, I might have done the same thing he then did: Figured it wasn't my problem, since I didn't see anything. He said as much, then he went back to his job. Life inside the 7-Eleven proceded on course. For all they knew, nothing had happened.

I went back out. The angry man had left, his sedan with him. The gentleman he was threatening moments before already had the police on his cell phone, and with the aid of another witness and myself, gave what information he could. Especially since, apparently, when the sedan left, the rifle was 'riding shotgun', as it were, and anyone on such a hair trigger might use it elsewhere. I couldn't provide much - I saw bits and pieces, but I was at a distance for most of the unfolding events.

And it was so fast.

I added what I could, which wasn't enough. I made sure the gentleman who, again, near as I can tell took a parking space someone else wanted and was threatened seriously with being shot had my name and place of employment in case he needed a witness. Because, if all you are going to do is make a point, why grab a gun? And if you just mean to scare the guy, why be sure it's loaded? Then I went back to work, shaken and doing my best not to be. I finished out the day with only a few more of the piddling little difficulties that make my current vocation such a trial, though they dragged more for the wonderful extra stress I picked up over break.

It was a hard day. Worst of all is the memory that I walked past. What I saw could just have easily been a homocide. I walked past. I honestly can't see anything better I could have done. Trying to break up a dispute where one guy goes from irritation to branishing deadly weapons is the height of stupidity, and I could have made things so much worse. I could have been the last straw before shooting started. I was prudent instead. I went directly to a place where there was possible aid. I did the safe thing, I think. I did the wise thing, I think.

I think.

Yet I keep wondering about the sequence of events. What if the argument hadn't gone so well? If it had been worse. If that angry man with the rifle had pulled the trigger, while I was doing the safe, wise thing, how would I feel about myself now? I saw a man pull a fucking gun longer than my arm, and I walked past. Not a word, not a whisper. I tell myself I did right. I even believe it. I still feel like a coward.

How would I have slept tonight, if he'd fired after I walked past? Would I have?

New Schedual - Same Sloth

Yep. Almost forgot again.

Free cookie to whatever stray reader forsaw that one coming.

So. Once again, here I am at the tail end of my night, desperately trying to dredge a topic from the depths of my mind (you know, I really do have to start giving thought to having a direction for this blog. Seinfeld may have run season after season on nothing, but I do not think I have the same constitution.) and present it as an offering to the dark internet gods.

Huh. Dark Internet Gods. Hee. Doubt I am the first to come up with that particular idea (anyone who has read even a little Neil Gaiman is nodding their head right now) but let's name some of them.

Swocharns, the Dread Beast of Glitches and Viruses. Every time your screen fuzzes oddly and spots appear or you find that opening an e-mail from your favorate cousin Binky has infected you with twenty-seven different form of spyware, worms and trojans, you know that Swocharns has lifted his eyes of binary-junk murk to skewer you with his baleful fury. Your data is not safe. Your OS? It will fall to his bloody assault. You aren't safe. You aren't even protected. Those virus updates you got this morning? Useless - he got backdoors past all of them written by some teenage hacker in Holland or New Jeresy or down the street, and your system, with all those hours of data entry work and frustrated, ultimately triumphant effort will be flushed away, and all you'll see is a blue screen of death as everything you have worked for since 1998 is rewritten into unimpressive dribble. He is chaos that is smart enough to hold together just long enough to destroy just a little more of your harddrive. Swocharns - the faceless hatred of ten thousand black hats pureed and concentrated and given form for one purpose. To shatter what little sanity you have left after you realize just how much of your life is invested in a machine you have so little control over the survival and protection thereof.

Less threatening, but just as out to get you, is the Faceless King. He is Nigerian, and he just died and left you a fortune, if only you would divest yourself of all protection and give him the information that he needs. Nevermind how sensitive - he assures you you can trust him. He's also a long lost friend, recently passed away who wrote you into a will, a brother you never met, an admirer from so far away you never realized he could be, a professional just needing that one missing piece to put together a treasure map. But he needs you. She needs you. Gender isn't important, and he or she is whatever you most want to believe. If you miss a lover, the Faceless Queen will be your lover. If you want to feel important, the Emperor of Uncounted Wishes will grant you all the value you could ever want. He wants to give you things, too. What do you want? A credit card with a limit that never runs dry? Done. Better body, with larger attributes to the bust or the scepter? She understands, and will discretely provide. What do you want, what will pull you into his land, out of your own. What price to render your life, your years of carefully invested wealth, your future? He can offer a bargain that would make Mephisto green with envy, a Faustian bargin to shame every two bit fool who sold their soul on the cheap. All you have to do is listen. Listen carefully - to your e-mail, on your social networks, throughout all the lines and cracks, because he has a thousand mouths, all looking for the one promise which will pull you to his million hands. He doesn't need your service, he won't help himself to your home one moment longer than he has to. All you have to do is reach out, and contact him. Just the once. It's all he wants. It's all he needs. Because once you do, the Faceless won't ever need another thing from you. That once is enough for him to have everything.

Last of those I have identified is the Tricker. The one that pulls you into the internet, convinces you that it means more than it does. Convinces you that a piece of the life is all there should be. We've known him longest, feared him more than anything else. He is seduction, not of the lustful variety, but of the sweet pro-offering of having the world at one's fingers without need to go out and risk it. They've made movies about his promise, his lie is in a thousand TV programs almost as far back as computers were beginning to enter our lives. We know the other two by their teeth and their claws, by the whispers in the electronic night and a thousand signs glittering like deadlights over a shadowed sea. But the Tricker, the Sleeper, the False Dream, the one we've figured was waiting to be born with this new Information Age before we even walked in the door? He's no surprise, and like the other two he doesn't advertise. Its crass, and he's no fool. He merely lets those who would be seduced come into his web, and he lets them rest. In their sundry idles, he drowns them, and like those who have come into his den since a poor settlement in mythical ages found lotus fruits and smelled sweet smoke, he'll embrace them as lovingly as a parent. They'll not even notice his gentle grasp is choking them. He isn't addiction, he isn't madness. He's worse, and he's got millenia of practice before he looked laughingly at the feast we offered as a trade for all the good we get from this time of dawning advancement. Read old sci-fi. Hell, read old science journals. It was the bargain. For the thousand easements of this world wide web, we let one of the oldest spiders of the human condition crawl forth, looking for those caught in it's strands. If you watch the news, occasionally you'll see a story about the caccooned madling found; some victim who lost his sense of reality to Fascination and never came back.

...

Dang. That didn't come out anything like where the first fleeting random thought on it looked like. Oh well. This is supposed to be stream of consciousness - whatever comes out, goes up. Least until I can come up with a direction.

Anyhow. That's enough for now. Goodnight hypothetical readers.

Fear the Three.