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momma's little boy was a honkie shaman

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bull session [Sep. 2nd, 2006|05:05 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |Tennessee Vs. California]

The purity of the air was deliciously tainted. Sustaining respiration and not poisoning through the skin, but only just barely. The lights were at a level that would carefully inculcate a slower rate of mentation.
"Here's to good friends. Tonight is something special...", droned a captured broadcast of a world that was to countless scattered planets (and their nonindigenous inhabitants) as the die in a foundry to a box of nuts.
Mandibles acquired lubrication. Snorts of appreciative exhalation were made. And just like the product advertised, ethanol was consumed. Let's hear it for parallel evolution.
"You know what's just not fair?", said Hyro, who looked a bit like a furless sea otter with tesselated orange octagons for skin, and a triune set of compound eyes into the bargain.
"Mmm?", said Lerem, who also looked a bit like a Terran aquatic- in this case a vertabrate octopi with the skin coloring of the back of a mallard drake's neck.
"Humans are all pretty much equally desirable,"
"Oh yes.", interrupted Lerem, and raising the minimum increment level of the wager while doing so.
"Yes, they're all quite optimal. I don't know what it is, the bilateral symmetry- no offense- (meeting the raise), minimal external secretions ("that's relative", thought Lerem, but keeping the thought under wraps) the lack of crenellations in their skin,"
A soft thump of purple gas exuded over the table as Murt either found part of that sentence objectionable, poignantly resonant in its truth, or just signalling an intent to fold out of the game. Murt was something like a pile of ribbed iron leaves burying an antennae farm. Turns out the thump signified both of the latter.
"Sorry Murt. We can't all be so hardy in construction. I imagine your shells keep you quite comfortable when we're outside the mycelium. Evolution can be so capricious sometimes. Which is my point. We all find them attractive,"
(Purple gas fart, raise by Lerem)
"...but very few of them look at me," said Lerem.
"yes, or I, and find beauty. In fact, they're more likely than not to actually take offense when offered the use of our bodies. I've had to kill a couple of them when they just wouldn't take 'sorry!' for an answer and let me withdraw in humiliation." Hyro paused to consider what positions were left in the game. They were not good.
"Your round, Lerem. Another?"
"Sure. Please deal, Murt." The disks and chits were raked together and pushed toward Murt. A opening in the "leaves" was made, and Murt extruded a few small 'tentacles' to rein them in. A second later they were randomized and approportioned to the other two players.
Hyro continued, "Anyways, it's hard to argue with their choice, if not their logic. I know if I were human, I probably would not choose a Ehylio (which is what Hyro was) for sex pleasure. What, would be the point, when so many humans exist, and almost all of them prefer their own to 'other'?"
"Sad but true. At least for ape fever cases like us. They're forever unattainable for the most part.", agreed Lerem.
Murt put out a shortwave radio broadcast that showed begrudging agreement, although in a much more stoic, less overt emotionally, way. The other two nodded in agreement and appreciated the humor in the quadruple entendre encoded in Murt's transmission.
"And yet, I cannot bring myself to accept this state. Occasionally the broad minded sort does appear, and oh! What a joy when such can be found!" Hyro's poker face was something awesome, but when it came to clever restraint in hiding intention in the level of ante, Ehylio emotions left a lot to be desired. Lerem noted this and pushed in the necessary allotment of markers to exit the round.
"My remit is waste again. I resign.", said Lerem.
"Just you and I, Murt? Go easy on me, won't you? I'm left quite emotionally labile with all this talk of human flesh. So fragile, and all those limitations...paradoxically they leave ME weak as well!"
Murt's exhaust took on a whitish hue. Smaller tentacles conceded defeat and were accompanied by another hyperexpressive blast of static.
"You've lost me, Murt. The females? What are those?"
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whoa, a follow up! [Aug. 30th, 2006|08:15 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |Big Black- Tiny, King of the Jews]

So I get done checking the area of space of the shtick I can do in one day, and see that it is good. I call in my subroutines from their maintenance of the Shkadov scab and begin the slow trek back to the Wilderness. Time passes, the familiar shroomy shape grows in my view.
I nudge the j-stick a bit, and a pallet of unused exotic matter goes back into the containment field of today's Camino. What a day. Thank Hicks it's almost over. I'm going to burn a whole field of left handed keef when I get back to the little patch of gills I call home on the Wilderness.
"RHATDAY NGKAT, (pshsbgk!!!!) ^^^"
"...come back Trev?"
"...(clicks) (short wave pool slide/kazoo) SSSONYOU VALUE!!!"

In space, no one can hear your mistakes. When you forget to allow for the possibility of a misaligned nihiloport, the actual sound of you being propelled into uncharted cursed realms of the hinter demons is kinda yknow, academic. At least it sure seemed that way. One minute we were relatively stationary to the hole and the attendant hole we'd built around it, the next, stars began to move away from us at a speed that kept things the same color, but with disturbingly changed parallax.


I confess, I lost my shit in a big way. I wasn't prepared for acceleration or motion. Even though I locked up in my mind, it wasn't the reintroduction of gravity to my immediate life situation that snapped me back into focus- it was watching Trev getting tossed like a rag doll up the superstructure of the n-port. Fuck the s-soles, the only thing keeping him from being tossed into space is the gouges his claws rip into the metal. I'm still stupid. He yanks the booth I'm in open and as a indicator of how freaked out he is, he doesn't even look at the idiot responsible (me), but rather starts swatting and slapping at all the taped-over and gummy-with-old tape controls that Troy assured me I'd never need to use.
Again, there's no sound in space to make things dramatic, so I can't panache up the action of Trev jettisoning us loose of the outbound (now quite TOO literal in meaning) n-port ring. The sudden change in direction and velocity is enough to pin his considerable mass against a wall of this already cramped closet, and the tip of his tail comes about THIS close to severing a nice gash in my shinesuit.
What the hell, exactly, is going on? Oh, not much- we've just been installing a nihiloport next to the requisite black hole, right? Right. So matter goes into the b-hole, throws out radiation, the mycelium absorbs it, makes exotic matter to continuously thread one end of a ring of multiply connected space, and somewhere on any one of a number of ends, the process is repeated. Usually said number of ends is enough to take the pressure off the ring we make, and even if that wasn't so, we've got a big refridgerating laser hooked to the threading mechanism to catch and pump back out into empty space any energetic slack, should the other ends fail to be there and catastrophic feedback occurs. Right? Wrong. Some moron's forgotten to hook the laser up. And of course, today would be the day where the other holes aren't turned on, the feedback's Hendrixing away, and SO. ARE. WE.
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journeyman's license [Aug. 26th, 2006|08:10 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[mood |twenty four oz.]
[music |Sunn O)))- Dylan Carlson]

(author's note- one day I will assemble this journal into some sort of order, right now it's all I can do just to make myself write, let alone keep to a chronology or plot) So if you were expecting a follow up to that last jawn, or any of the previous, solly cholly.


I don't know what was the scarier part of the sentence that was the first said to me today at the shop, "You're working on the Shkadov", or "with Trevarance today."
Don't get me wrong, I love my job. I love my life. I even love Trev as much as a man can love something that isn't completely sold on the idea of not eating him in a pique of frustration. I do get scared though when I'm working on the thing that exemplifies our very namesake- something that moves, if not lifts, stars. A lot rides on it, the least of which is hardly the trillions of beings that depend on this star and its retinue of planets, moons, and asteroids for their way of living. No, it's actually more the losing face for the tribe I worry about. We botch a job like this and it looks very bad. The next civilization or coterie of civilizations that can't get it together to migrate to another star or is just too lazy to, might just opt for mass uploading, or decide endenturing to the Bankers isn't too high of a price to outlive the life of their system. I worry about all that- making the Tribe look bad.
Well, no. Let me be honest, sometimes I just worry they're going to send me home. That they're not going to find any use for the softest, most frail of all the family. The one who can only see in one spectrum of light, the one whose body still needs a rigid sack around it in vacuum, the one who, even when he's inside the ship, has got to have his atmosphere just so, or he turns funny colors and uh, dies. The one who isn't used to applying gravy to his food with a air hose. About the only thing they don't laugh at me for is my ability to play the court with any gravity at all- and that, they don't know I was never actually any good at when I was on Earth. But they build with me, I with them, and today, they've got me on the Shkadov.
The Shtick, for that's what we call it, spans further than the unaugmented eye can see. It curves away in both directions, making it like the universe's largest dressing room. If I could actually view these ends, I'd see an infinite regress of me in my little pod.
Right now I'm doing something that sure seems like a robot could do, which is verifying the structural integrity of the sail. We get reports from the sail itself, (and it's not that bad of a conversationalist) but we like to be thorough, so out here I am, checking for holes with everything from lidar to magnetic resonance to my own baby blues. I couldn't actually see where a hole starts, but with the pressure this thing is under, it wouldn't take long before it would rip to the point where I could.
Trev buzzes me on the skreebox. The first time he says whatever's on his mind, it's completely undistinguishable from granulated static.
"Come back, Teethirteen."
The second time: "SHWOCK (crhshshswrdgg) LONG (bshshshs) THERE!?"
"Say again?" I really wish he could find a keyboard to fit his claws and just send me an email. I really wish there were still keyboards and email.
Third: "(in a voice half-machine translated)How long are you going to take fucking around out there?" The machine's good, I dunno why Trev doesn't use it more. Actually I do, he doesn't need to with anyone but me. And this is what really irritates me about astroengineering- everyone in the Tribe views it as ridden and rife with such common sense topics that they breeze through conversations with the speed of a trip through one of our nihiloports.
"Trev, three things:
1. I usually can't hear you.
2. When I can hear you, I can't understand you.
3. When I can understand you, I usually don't know what you're talking about."
A slight pause. The cultured tones of m-translated provolved reptilespeke: "Earthboy, you still got all that garlic in your creche?"
"Is it still flavorful when fitted rectally?"
He's still using the machine translator, so he can't be in that bad of a mood. So:
"Get fucked, hammerskin. I'm almost done with this section. What do you want me to do next?"
"KHHUSSHH (gargle) corpuscles."
"Recoat the ..."
I think what he's trying to say is to make sure there's a honey-colored layer of the material on the outlying edge of the sail, accreting and converting stellar dust and radiation into the living scab that makes up the sail. But I can't be sure. Last time I made the mistake of not being clear we were out here way past quitting time busting up a grown over layer of this stuff. It sets fast and grows faster. If you're going to push a star (ok, so we're not actually part of the lifting crew on this jawn- but we actually do more jobs like this than we do coronal mass harvesting), you need a big sail, and if you need a sail that size, you're not going to get it welding it piecemeal. A little life will go a long way here, so what we're really looking at is something a few million years evolved from what covers up your skateboarding bobos. What momma used to kiss and make better, now moves your solar system.
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slight return [Aug. 18th, 2006|06:20 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |Big Star- Back of a car]

Awright, that's it. It's time to lift some stars and clear some jobs off the tribe's work docket.

We were somewhere around the Kuiper Belt when the drugs kicked in. At least that's what I assumed was to blame for the sight of a pristine pair of Nike Air Huaraches floating in a field of ice chunks and the rest of the astrodirt that makes up the KB.
I held off on biting my mike and instead squirted over to the most podiatrically shaped pieces of protocometary debris I'd ever seen. I got there, they still looked like shoes. They were even the hideously awesome purple and orange Scottie Pippen model I'd grown to love as a JV bench warmer.
Then things got weird. Lights began to emerge further away in the field, and then converged on one of the larger chunks.
I blinked image intensifiers on and grunted an instance of visual discriminators at the point. My atmosphere mix is bad, how else to explain such...yellows? Tonka yellow, that's the only way I explain it. The VDs sifted and chunked the view until the lights were revealed to be mounted on objects even more blatantly artificial than the Nikes. They were big, the yellow things, and their purpose quietly yammered at the back of my brain, though I wouldn't be able to admit said purpose until much later, when by that point it was all but academic. They looked a bit like the love children of an El Camino and a honey bee, and if they weren't vehicles, then the area past Pluto is an altogether sweeter, buzzier place than we'd ever imagined. The lights arranged themselves in a circle. Let there be more C, apparently. The bees kicked up the illumination by quite a factor, and my brain gave up and decided it could only narratize this later in the homiest terms possible, which as it turned out, was the closest thing to what was happening anyways.
Sources of reaction mass are cheap here, so I burned a bit and went in for a closer look, being sure to stay somewhat close to a piece of spacecrap that was also going roughly in that direction.
An opening revealed itself in one honeybee and 5 tiny objects floated out. The largest had some sort of long cylinder attached to it. I blinked the ROV's cameras to their strongest zoom, and the objects resolved thusly:
3 humanoids, one of which reflected much more light than the other two; a smaller,eggshaped object with gently waving appendages; and finally, a much larger humanoid, which had the cylinder. Another bee made an opening and a similar sequence of events played out, except this one had 2 shiny humanoids, 2 larger ones, and what looked like an aggregation of legos. The legos had their cylinder.
I had to fight the urge to email mom and ask if she'd lost the contents of my childhood toy box to a wormhole.
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ST:8154 [Nov. 30th, 2005|01:00 am]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |Prefuse 73- that song with Tyondai Braxton]

Andre: I'm not telling a ten foot tall superevolved reptile that his food supply was jettisoned into space 10 parsecs ago.

Troy: You could tell him what you did to his bed.

Andre: You did that!

Troy: Yeah, but I didn't want to bring up the food.


Jad: I'm responsible for demolition, destruction, deconstruction, dematerialization, destabilization...

Troy: To say nothing of demarcation.


Trip: It's not as easy to get your point across via drug-induced gnosis as you might expect.


Bongbong: (pointing) It's just empty space!

Troy: What a relief, I was worried there'd be nothing here.


Troy: It's a thankless life, full of long treks, artificially induced hibernation, relationships stretched over millenia, bad food, the only company in light years are incomprehensible alien species, and then there's the work week.


Trip: Do you understand now?
Andre: Let mu pet it to you this way: orange peel mouthguards.
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if I had to write a buddy movie [Sep. 10th, 2005|03:26 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |PiL-Disappointed?]

It would be about forensic bibliographers. They get hired to go through used book stores and try to retrace sellers through researching suspicious accretions of authors and interest in same. Por ejemplo, most of tredecimal's used C, Unix, LISP manuals have "Matthews" written on the outside of the pages. Who could possibly find this career boring?
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m2p2 [Aug. 23rd, 2005|07:56 am]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |Diverse- Aint Right]

hydrogen flows from me like diarrhea on a platter
takes the curve of the solar wind's cleavage
i charge this and fill it with what used to be pressurized gravy and is now the juice accreted from a chunk of metal that's so homesick for deep space and an incarnation as radiation that it can't even keep its own atoms from decaying at a rate that makes it get HOT and GLOW
you cant see my field, like incorruptible tabernacles
but you can see me move, like intractable entropy
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A Pilot I'll Never Write, Unfortunately [Aug. 4th, 2005|06:23 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
Bruce Forte, aka Brute Force, & his partner in life and computerized criminology, Rod Logic, ARE the Unambiguously Gay Computerized Criminology CSI Unit! Coming to at least two networks near you this spring!
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Interview With A Sessile Superbeing [Jun. 5th, 2005|07:47 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[music |Sonic Youth- Becuz]

Troy walks in with Trip in his hands. He places Trip on the sill of the observation blister. Outside, I rotate to face him. The station extends a pseudopod and I'm once again sharing an airlock with a plant intelligence that regularly outthinks the distributed and collected intelligences of several species of carbon, silicon, and ammonia-based forms of life. My helmet recedes and we look at each other. Or rather, I look at Trip, or something that wants me to call it Trip so there can at least be a dream of meaningful communication, sits there and does nothing at any speed I can differentiate from motionlessness. The avocado remains on the floor, so I eat it. Random.bml spits out thisissureal, who has no idea how surreal it really is. The avocado comes on quick, it's like the esvie equivalent of something heavy in salvinorum-b, as in you can feel a tactile grip take you, but an affectionate or benevolent one.



I see : [ ∞ ]
I find: space is full of young life, exploding life, unconsumable uncertainty
I want: to know [ π ]
I wish: you had notebooks and record players in geologic time
I love: every organelle and cel of my tribe
I hate: condensing a million years into a fruit
I miss: I have all I need
I fear: any combination of chili powder, a mashing implement, onions, garlic, tomatos, lime juice being prepared in my vicinity
I hear: the sounds of your breathing, digestion, cognition, Trev cleaning his spurs, the Wilderness' circulation system, a couple of high energy cosmic rays being redirected from the ergosphere of the hole outside...
I smell: nothing
I crave: nothing
I hunt: nothing
I wonder: see "I see" and "I want"
I regret: nothing
I cried: about nothing


[ x ] Hairbrush - I don't have any hair
[ x ] Toothbrush - nor do I have teeth
[ x ] Jewelry worn daily - nothing looks good on a cactus with a squid's curves
[ x ] Pillow cover - red velour. seriously, the Tribe made one for me, and that's where I rest
[ x ] Coffee Cup - I drink all at once
[ x ] Sunglasses - I have no eyes
[ x ] Underwear - see Jewelry
[ x ] Favorite shirt - see Underwear
[ x ] Cologne/Perfume - Eau de Saguaro
[ x ] Tattoos - hypertext handshake, nothing more
[ x ] Piercings - I had a bioport put under one of my tentacles
[ x ] In my mouth - juices for digestion
[ x ] In my head - a universe of fibrous gates and switches
[ x ] Wishing - is for your kind. sorry.
[ x ] After this - sit in my room and think a lot (kept from original)
[ x ] Fetishes - yeast
[ x ] Person you wish you could see right now - Trev with some Fleischmann's
[ x ] Is next to you - the interviewer
[ x ] Some of your favorite movies - Greptron And The Collapse Of Capitalism, Citizen Kane, Slapshot
[ x ] Something you're looking forward to in the upcoming month - getting the Wilderness out of here
[ x ] The last thing you ate - some beta particles. you're welcome
[ x ] Something that you are afraid of - nothing
[ x ] Do you like candles - as long as they're not dripping on me. wait, maybe i'm afraid of candles
[ x ] Do you like incense - as long as it's not burning on me. wait, maybe i'm afraid of incense
[ x ] Do you like the taste of blood - it has its good and bad points
[ x ] Do you believe in love - in other species, sure
[ x ] Do you believe in soul mates - ( up until this point, I'd actually sort of felt a connection to Trip. I knew it was just the avocado talking, but it actually seemed like the hairs near his tentacles were sort of waving in time to the rhythm of his thoughts. they're not moving a bit now )
[ x ] Do you believe in love at first sight - ( still getting that bored non-wiggle of tentacle hair )
[ x ] Do you believe in Heaven - Inasmuch as I have an instance running on ISM, yes.
[ x ] Do you believe in God - We're working on that
[ x ] What do you want done with your body when you die - ground up and used as my scion's compost
[ x ] Who is your worst enemy - Everybody Loves An Usvie
[ x ] If you could have any animal for a pet, what would it be - I have a parrot by the name of Alive in my quarters.
[ x ] What is the latest you've ever stayed up - I've never not been at least partially awake
[ x ] Can you eat with chopsticks - yes, actually
[ x ] What's your favorite coin - once we saw a ningi pu that had been placed under the rail of a exapantechnicon, it was so flat that it encroached upon dimensions only normally experienced as the challenging part of mapping hyperspace topography.
[ x ] What are some of your favorite animals - raptors, humans...
[ x ] What's something that you wish people would understand - what goes through my head (also kept from original)
[ x ] What's something you wish you could understand better - ambulatory beings
[ x ] Who is someone that you really wish was still around - my brother George. The avocado begins to peel around the edges of my eyes, I think the hairs are waving their last. I begin to get the vague feeling a vegetable's laughing at me.
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I'll get out of the vacuum yet! [Jun. 5th, 2005|03:59 pm]
momma's little boy was a honkie shaman
[mood |just glad to be here]
[music |Autechre- Fermium]

Here's Trev's quiz results. Bear in mind he's a ten foot tall, artificially evolved (by a now-forgotten race of enslaving lazyassed sophonts) lifeform whose species shares more than a little genetic info with Utahraptor or his more omnivorous cousin, Maniraptor. His hands consist of three large forward facing spurs, and one facing opposite. As such, human keyboards are flimsy toys to him, and a lot of the time he has to point to monitors and get his gist across through...nuance. Random.bml picked cha_nuu for this quiz:

1. Nervous Habits: tail-flailing, blinking all three sets of eyelids in succession, breaking anything that can be remade in a swarm
2. Are you double jointed: < looks at the interviewer stiffly >
3. Can you roll your tongue: < tries, has to tip head back, lose balance and trips leg over tail > We'll say...no.
4. Can you raise one eyebrow at a time: raptors don't have brows as such since they're hairless, but they can definitely convey skepticism and disdain with a glance
5. Can you blow spit bubbles: < interviewer drowned in something thick and foul > Er...also a no.
6. Can you cross your eyes: Not only can Trev cross his eyes, but now he's making me queasy by making his eyeballs traverse in the lateral both quickly and independently behind their third nictating membrane.
7. Tattoos: the usual roaming hypertext and a very crudely burnt human language letter (I think it's a B) on what a human would be called his right bicep
8. Piercings: raptors regularly pierce their first layer of skin with anything of size they think they might use a lot
9. Do you make your bed daily: Trev said to keep the answer from the last person here. "no. what would be the point in that? you just mess it up again."
Except in Trev's case it's a futan mattress the size of a swimming pool and what can only be described as a comforter, albeit one from the same weight of cloth and tailors who make smocks for x-ray technicians.


10. Which shoe goes on first: whichever is closest
11. Speaking of shoes have you ever thrown one at anyone: < looks guilty >
"...rimsy, reakling, raselines..."
12. On the average, how much money do you carry:
Troy cuts in: "When you're 10 feet tall and naturally armored, the need for money is something that happens to other people." Trev nods.
13. What jewelery do you wear 24/7: R'ime rot reven ruman rand ri row rou rell rewelry rith ronly roo rees. Ree #8
14. Favorite pieces of clothing: Ree #12

-- FOOD --
15. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it: Andre asks the matter compiler to instantiate a plate of pesto. It does so and Dre takes it over to Trev, and lightly steps on the middle spur of his foot. Trev tilts his head back and Dre scrapes the contents of the plate down his maw in a manner not unlike that of a garbage disposal.
16. Have you ever eaten Spam: Dre repeats the process. Something gastric happens and I'm again covered in reptile mucus.
17. Favorite ice cream flavor: Res.
18. How many cereals in your cabinet: < tail begins to switch excitedly > Troy and Hugo work quickly to distract him. Dre has a quiet word with me:
"Unless you don't want to finish this survey for another few hours, don't mention anything small and crunchy to Trev."
19. What's your favorite beverage: rater...rojive ruice
20. What's your favorite restaurant: Roort's Rhris Rouse Rof Rarcass Rowledge
21. Do you cook: < looks at me hungrily > Dre gives me a meaningful glance.


22. How often do you brush your teeth: < still looking at me with gastronomical speculation > Repends ron re rype rof real...
23. Hair drying method: < cleans a spur with something like a scimitar >
24. Have you ever colored / highlighted your hair: < flicks scimitar's goo at me >


25. Do you swear: Rou relgian relephant!
26. Do you ever spit: Right after I realize the stupidity of what I just asked, I manage to duck and instead Trip is shellacked with sauropod spit.


27. Animal: Rerg raks
28. Food: < long thoughtful pause > ruman. Roth rerved rand rerving.
29. Month: Rqtio
30. Day: Rlaro
31. Cartoon: Render!
32. Shoe brand: < shows aforementioned BRTWSS >
33. Subject in school: < tail again begins to wave in agitation > Troy takes a couple of electrodes off of Trip and hands them and a large imipolex hood to Trev. The hood's giving off a lot of smoke and there's colored light visible from inside the hood. Trev puts on the hood, his tail goes slack, and starts making a sound somewhat like a TIE fighter trapped in a house of ill tremolo.
When he takes off the hood, his mood is decidedly altered. Things couldn't be tickety-booER for old Trev.

34. Color: reen!
35. Sport: rall rourt!
36. TV show: Render!
37. Thing to do in the spring: runt rand rather!
38. Thing to do in the summer?: rask rand rhill!
39. Thing to do in the fall?: romp rand rolic!
40. Thing to do in the winter?: rock rand rake rihiloports!

41. In the CD player: Rhaz Rimi Rand Rher Rall Ruman Rand: Ra Rhildren's Rhymer
42. Person you talk most on the phone with: < I get the raptor eyebrow, but it's more a 'you silly baseline monkey' one than a 'stupid potential meal' >
43. Do you regularly check yourself out in store windows and mirrors: Roy ran rexy ror Ritan, roy rexy ro rallll.....
44. What color is your bedroom: rue!
45. Window seat or aisle: rhat re relgian relepant...

-- LA LA LAND --

47. What's your sleeping position: rehind rer
48. Even in hot weather do you use a blanket: re recret rof retting rast roldroodedness.
49. Do you snore: Andre, Hugo, Trip, Troy, and the distributed intelligences of the room concur in a resounding "YES." rooo ruys....
50. Do you sleepwalk: ri rhould rink rot
51. Do you talk in your sleep: again, the crew answers for him in the affirmative
52. Do you sleep with stuffed animals: < a stern glance silences Hugo, who appeared to be about to say something. how one can intimidate an upload, is quite beyond me, but I'm not pressing it. >
53. What about with the light on: rifferent rectrums ror rifferent recies...
54. Do you fall asleep with the TV or radio on: rer.....


55. Outfit: < Trev gets up >
56. Worry: < I urge him to answer just a couple more >
57. Desktop: Rook...< he places a massive spur on my shoulder >
58. To do list: Rou're rice, rut...rime regining ro rave roubts rabout rhis rupposed ruman rincompatibility rith rice rishes... < with that, a force wall announces its presence between them and myself. he and the rest leave. my suit comes back on as a whoosh leaves me floating on the other side of the airlock. Oh look, Trip left me an avocado behind for when I get back in. >
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