A game based a reverse Turing test? I am so there.

Thanks to The Ferrett for the link.

I don’t like rap. Never have. It just doesn’t tickle my music enjoyment lobe.

I will, however, make a nice, big exception for this song.

[14:02:15] <+Zicon> Gief topic space. I has topic.
[14:02:31] ! mode/#rpgnet-politics [+o Zicon] by Djones
[14:02:38] ! Zicon changed the topic of #rpgnet-politics to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaCZN2N6Q_I
[14:02:56] <@Djones> ...
[14:03:04] ! mode/#rpgnet-politics [-o Zicon] by Djones
[14:03:07] <@Djones> BAD.
[14:03:08] <@Djones> Bad zicon.
[14:03:13] <+Zicon> Just trust me.
[14:03:35] <@Djones> I want to punch them all in the face with their own kidneys.
[14:03:43] <@Djones> ...
[14:03:44] <+Zicon> TRUST me.
[14:03:47] <@Djones> WHARHrdhsdndrsv
[14:03:49] <@Djones> WHAT>!
[14:04:24] ! mode/#rpgnet-politics [+o Zicon] by Djones

I want to eat my fingernails. This glittery blue makes it look like I have little pieces of candy stuck to my fingers in the best kind of way. I was almost dancing when I saw how nicely this combination turned out.

One and a half coats of Orly Blue Collar—I say one and a half because this polish is so close to being opaque in one coat, I only needed to go over a second time to fill in a couple of bald spots—and one coat of Nfu.Oh 37.

Happy multicolour glitter joy!

Voxopolis is a “3D city engine based on Conway’s Game of Life” and is so very, very cool.

So, when can I use this to generate cities for my D&D campaign?

I arrived safely in Norway on tuesday, and I have lots of photos for you. Unfortunately I brought home a nasty stomach bug too, and once I stopped puking the nearly-inevitable plane flu hit me—not leaving me with much energy for sorting all those photos.

Oh, if only I had a bottle of Bruce’s Juice! That would surely fix me right up!

I’ll get back to you once my nose stops producing snot by the bucket-load.

This is a post to see if posting from my phone works.

This software is horridscaly (what the Hell is my phone’s dictionary on about) slow, and I’m not impressed, but I guess it’ll do in a pinch.

Oh, a photo, too. That will be all.

I admit it. I’m not a big blog reader. When it comes to the available offerings in the blogging world, Sturgeon’s Law is very much in effect. Of the few blogs I do read, I don’t read everything. For most, not even half.

However, I will read everything The Ferrett writes. Even though he probably the most prolific blog writer on my short list by far, I will read everything.

Why? Because I do not want to miss out on gems such as The Ferrett on homosexuality.

That is all.

My hair reached critical length weeks ago, so yesterday, after making sure cute boy got into the office without somehow killing himself, I went to the hair dresser. My preferred hair cut is a basic one—short in back, below the jaw in front—and this particular hair dresser has cut my hair to my contentment a couple of times before, so I expected this to be over and done with quickly and easily. Silly me.

A simple thing

I’m not sure exactly what happened. I can only assume that the hair dresser decided my hair looked flat, and decided to do something about it—without asking me first.

My preferred hair cut is preferred for many reasons. One of these reasons is that unless held back, my hair hangs down in front of my face. As I like to avoid bumping into random unidentified objects while walking down the street, my hair needs to be long enough for me to tuck it behind my ears. As the hair dresser suddenly cut the hair on top of my head short, this—and my regular hair cut in general—was no longer an option.

I now had to trust that he knew what he was doing, and that this would somehow end up okay. Silly me.

Trust?

He kept cutting. He insisted upon washing my hair, and I despise the feeling of someone else washing my hair. He then proceeded to style my hair, for what seemed like a small eternity. Finally he finished, and I could gaze upon the result.

A big emo lock hung down over my left eye. The cut had a distinctly boyish look to it. Not only did he make me look like a goddamn emo, he made me look like a goddamn emo boy! I’m sad to say that rather than giving the hair dresser what he deserved, I went into quiet shock, and simply paid and left.

The furious anger did not kick in until over an hour later, after I had finished my grocery shopping—quite a feat with the bloody emo lock over my eye the whole time—and shivered every time I somehow glimpsed my own reflection. Too late. Thankfully my hair grows fast, so I can do some damage control and hopefully make it look semi-decent until it grows back out.

Damage control

I had a bad dye job a couple of months back, and my original plan for the day was to cut, bleach out the bad dye job, and re-dye my hair. I was going to dye it a dark colour, but this is simply out of the question with an emo-like cut. But a different colour might work, so I got on with the bleaching.

Here’s a free tip for you: Avoid Schwarzkopf LIVE Color XXL like the plague. Not only did the intended colour last for about two hair washes before somehow fading into a different colour, but it turns out heavy bleaching only slightly lightens the colour. My only non-option for re-dying appears to be black.

Anyone know where I can buy a nice hat?

Lessons I’ve learned over the last couple of days:

1. Four hours of waiting in the hospital feels like two days. Four hours of visiting time in the hospital feels like ten minutes.
2. Pretty much everyone in Norway speaks english, and by pretty much everyone I mean everyone except nurses. This is a big problem if you don’t speak norwegian, are near immobile, and are in pain. If you risk being admitted to a norwegian hospital, I suggest having the following phrases written down on handy note cards:
   • Jeg har vondt. Kan jeg få noe smertestillende? I am in pain. Can I have some painkillers?
   • Jeg må på do. I need to go to the toilet.
   • Jeg trenger en dusj. I need to take a shower.
   • Kan jeg få noe annet enn brunost? Can I have something other than brown cheese?
3. Visiting hours are a lot more flexible than indicated by the very strict-looking sign in the lobby. As long as you don’t make a fuss, the nurses do not seem to care one bit. There is, of course, also the possibility they wouldn’t kick me out as that would mean losing their translator.
4. Doctors mean business when they put metal bits into you. Here is an x-ray of patched-up broken ankle, and here is one from a different angle. You may want to quitely skip those links if you’re squeamish about this sort of thing.

The good news is that everything is healing according to plan, so the boyfriend should be out of the hospital and wobbling about on crutches soon.