Like Slug said, but without the volleyball line.

I’m trying to find a balance (I’m trying to build a balance) when it comes to my writing software. OmmWriter has been the one for quite a while, but it has some warts. No spell-check, which is bearable as WordPress catches that anyway. But the bigger thing is that it will slow down the system, and if you decide to go edit something at the top of a big paragraph, it runs like molasses, just trying to figure out the word wrap. I mean, I don’t think I can write a better program or anything. But it’s distracting, and that runs counter to what a “distraction-free workspace” is after.

It’s kind of funny that we take things for granted with programs, like word wrap not slowing the system down. I’m in a different piece of software now called FocusWriter, and I’ve also had WriteMonkey recommended to me. FocusWriter seems to hit the basics. Full screen, check. Spell check…check. Adjustable fonts/sizes/backgrounds, check. Adjustable margins, check. That’s it. I bring my own music anyway, I’m working on a writing playlist that I’ll put on Spotify when it’s finished. I add to it a train ride at a time. Right now I’m listening to what I still consider my favorite album, full stop. That would be This Binary Universe by BT.

Small aside for one of the bigger little regrets of my life. When the aforementioned album came out, I was a freshman at Louisville. Louisville football had managed to play their way to the Orange Bowl at Joe Robbie Stadium (I don’t remember or care what it was called that year, it’s Joe Robbie) in Miami. So Dad and I have a little road trip to go see old friends and catch the game. While I’m down there, I find out BT is having a black-tie release party for This Binary Universe, on New Years Eve, 2006 if I recall correctly, also in Miami. I want to say it was like $250 a head and they’d screen the film that went with the album, I’d get to meet BT who I’d been following since ‘98 or ‘99. You can do the math there easily enough, I was into his stuff from a very young age.

I didn’t go. I really should’ve fucking gone. This is a timeless album and there’ll never be another party for it like there was that night. Dang.

Since my post last week, where I was brimming with optimism about this new house, I feel I should mention that less than 10 minutes after publishing that post, I found out the house already went under contract to some other fucking guy. And since we backed out of the deal for the other house, we’re back to square one. It hit Diana pretty hard, she fell for the place quick. I’m bummed it’s gone but I’m seeing more houses come up for less money as we get into spring. Gotta stay upbeat.

I got back the results from my CT scan over the weekend. I talk to the doc about it tomorrow. It’s going to involve having to convince the guy that I’m not an alcoholic, just overweight, because they’re seeing fatty deposits in my liver. Not what I went in for, in fact they don’t have any leads on what the actual problem I’m complaining about is from an imaging standpoint.

I haven’t decided if the reason I’m as calm as I am about needing to lose nearly 40 pounds is because I’m a mature, stoic person or because I haven’t fully grasped how much fucking work it’s going to be. Probably the latter, I don’t really have a basis for comparison. I could to some math. 4 pounds of fat is around 14,000 calories, so 40 pounds is a net calorie deficit of 140,000 calories. I’m pretty sure the equivalent diet is like three months with no food, or six months at 800 calories. I know that ain’t happening, so the exercise is going to have to come way, way up. My mind is surprisingly clear on this. Normally it puts up a fight when we’re talking about a shitload of labor, not because it’s scared of the work, but because I’m afraid I’m gonna injure myself in some way. I could fucking injure myself eating toast or writing this blog. That part of me is full of shit and more than a little bit of a hypochondriac. You eat too many burritos and cake, shit happens.

Now, if I was presented with a button, where if I press it someone I’ve never met or known will die and I could eat like teenage me…nah, I probably wouldn’t. But I’d think about it! Baby back ribs are just the best, you know?