Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Der Platzindemschreibtischwodeinebeinegehen



Kneehole.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Whilst working on a piece of writing the other day, I found that I needed to know what you call the space in the desk where your legs go. After some Googling, I discovered it was called the ‘kneehole.’ There was some speculation that another word existed, but I never found it.

On the one hand, I’m delighted to discover ‘kneehole,’ as I can now use it in conversations where I want to either be a jerk or confuse people. ‘Did you check the kneehole?’ I might say. Or ‘You’re just a kneejerk kneeholer.’ I can also, if necessary, use it in a piece of writing to express the place in the desk where your legs go. “Harg curled up in the kneehole and while waiting for the promised cookie, began to pick his nose.”

Yes, this is an actual sentence I wrote for my second novel. It makes sense in context (I hope).

I must admit, though, that I’m a little disappointed. Initially, I hoped not to find a word that fit what I needed, then I could write a blog about how there was no word and then propose my own, such as ‘footbin’ or ‘toeatorium’ or ‘dustbunnyvalley.’ I would then exhort you, my six readers, to use it whenever possible.

Also, ‘kneehole’ is just a simple, effective word. When I read it, I was like ‘oh, duh. Of course that’s what you call the space in the desk where your legs go.’ It made perfect sense. However, deep down inside, I really wanted a weird, long vaguely-German term that sounded threatening, like ‘Todgruselraummitkase.’ This translates, according to Google, as ‘death horror space with cheese.’ Y’know, something you’d name your dog.

Yet now I have ‘kneehole’ and will add it to my vocabulary in case I need to concisely express something about that place in the desk where your legs go.

Or bet slightly drunk people that they don’t know what the word is for that place in the desk where the legs go.

Cheers,
-Jason

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Insomnia: The Gift That Keeps on Giving



The ceiling in my bedroom is completely uninteresting. I know this because I spent an inordinate amount of time last night staring at it. It’s off-white and slightly textured. Some sort of entertainment value would have been nice, such as a light show or a spider. Two spiders would have been great, especially if they did a little dance or something. Like ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz.’ The larger spider would be Peter Boyle and the smaller one Gene Wilder. It would be amazing.

And I’m rambling, as I’m very tired and all the still-functioning brain cells are focused on keeping me awake, continent, and breathing. Clever is way down the list of necessary functions, so yeah.

I did, at one point, lapse into a dream where people were being murdered and I figured out that the entire thing was related to a comic book series, where if you could just decipher the codes in the issues, it would tell you who was next. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the whole series, so cue a frantic journey across town to comic book shops to buy the back issues and thus prevent a series of murders.

Unfortunately, I woke up before I could solve the case. Sorry, dream people, insomnia is a harsh mistress.

Now, if there were three spiders, they could do the whole ‘Sedagive’ scene.

At around seven or eight-ish, I could hear my neighbors start to get up and prepare for work. Due to the thin walls, I got to listen in on one side of a phone conversation that my upstairs neighbor was having. Apparently, Ray called in sick and my neighbor needed to get there earlier. She was not happy. I do not blame her.

At some point, I had another dream where I had to deliver packages, but there were zombies all over the place, so would have to roar up in my car, sprint to the door, fight off the zombies while the homeowner signed for the package, and then fight my way back to the car. Waiting for the signatures seemed excessive, but those were the rules.

Anyway, I hope to get a decent night’s sleep tonight so that I can actually, y’know, think tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll sew some tiny outfits for the spiders.

Cheers,
-Jason

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Yet Another Evil



I have bad handwriting. I choose to blame the ubiquity of word-processors instead of any particular laziness or the fact that I had to stab a zombie with my good pen and now whenever I use it, it will only write ‘brains.’

I do take notes on a pad of paper I keep by my computer, but those are generally things like ‘+2 sword at 345,-88, 148’ or ‘spam? Immune to fire?.’ Pretty much I write down things that seem important and then reread it days later and wonder if the government is pumping weird chemicals into my apartment again.

Now, this is the point of the blog where I’m assuming you, the reader, will heave a sigh and wonder why I’m telling you this particular bit of information.

It’s because I found another dagger. Under my bed.

It’s a well-made dagger. About a foot of blackened blade on a leather-wrapped handle. Batwing-esque hilt. A big, eye-ball looking gem in the middle of the hilt that seems like its watching you. Some sort of rune on the pommel that screams when you touch it. A pretty typical ‘evil’ dagger, probably made by some guy with ‘the Cursed’ or ‘the Hateful’ or ‘He Who Shops at Hot Topic’ at the end of his name.

The troubling part is that there’s a tag attached to it that reads, as best as I can make out. ‘Cors?d Dagr of S???s??xyr. DESTR?Y ASAP IN FORG OF D?-smudge-?C.’

I have no idea.

Obviously, it was important enough at the time to label it, but not quite important enough to, y’know, write legibly. So, now I have yet another cursed dagger of some importance that I need to destroy in some specific way or in some specific place and I have no idea where or how or why.

Yes, I have several. In my hall closet, which also contains a cursed sword made out of vampire bones, a bunch of wands I keep in an empty Quaker Oats tube, one gauntlet that keeps trying to strangle me when I open the door to get the vacuum, and this bulbous yet pointy thing that pulses and seems to promise untold power if I just let it stick itself to my face.

All of which, I should point out, have some sort of tag or similar that I can’t read, because my handwriting sucks and/or it’s got blood all over it.

So, if this dagger sounds familiar and you know what I should do with it, let me know. Otherwise, it’s going in the closet.

And on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t keep the vacuum in there.

Cheers,
-Jason