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Name:
You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel
Birthdate:
22 February 1981
Location:
I used to be working towards a PhD in earthquake simulation using supercomputers, but I put that on hold, went full-time with the Army on a deployment to the Solomon Islands, and now work as a geologist in remote corners of Australia.

I like punk in general, and Alkaline Trio in particular.

My goal in life is to marry a Bollywood actress.

Come say hi if you want. :)

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আমি বাংলা বলতে পারি না

Ох, нелегкая это работа - Из болота тащить бегемота!

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"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."


- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, presciently predicting the rise of LiveJournal


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visited 16 states (7.11%)
Create your own visited map of The World


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This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
      -Shakespeare, Hamlet


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And we say goodbye
And go underground
Or up towards the sky
Up in smoke, burned down to size
At least we're still friends
At least we're still alive


-Alkaline Trio, Goodbye Forever


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So, how many quantum physicists does it take to change a lightbulb?

One. Two to get the ladder, one to buy the bulb, one to change it, and one to renormalise the wavefunction.

If you get that, we'll probably get on well.

How many punks does it take to change a lightbulb?

100. One to change it and 99 to argue about who did it first.

Same with that. :)

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Then the Whale opened his mouth back and back and back till it nearly touched his tail, and he swallowed the shipwrecked Mariner, and the raft he was sitting on, and his blue canvas breeches, and the suspenders (which you must not forget), and the jack-knife—He swallowed them all down into his warm, dark, inside cup-boards, and then he smacked his lips—so, and turned round three times on his tail.

But as soon as the Mariner, who was a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, found himself truly inside the Whale’s warm, dark, inside cup-boards, he stumped and he jumped and he thumped and he bumped, and he pranced and he danced, and he banged and he clanged, and he hit and he bit, and he leaped and he creeped, and he prowled and he howled, and he hopped and he dropped, and he cried and he sighed, and he crawled and he bawled, and he stepped and he lepped, and he danced hornpipes where he shouldn’t, and the Whale felt most unhappy indeed. (Have you forgotten the suspenders?)

So he said to the ’Stute Fish, ‘This man is very nubbly, and besides he is making me hiccough. What shall I do?’

‘Tell him to come out,’ said the ’Stute Fish.

So the Whale called down his own throat to the shipwrecked Mariner, ‘Come out and behave yourself. I’ve got the hiccoughs.’

‘Nay, nay!’ said the Mariner. ‘Not so, but far otherwise. Take me to my natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-Albion, and I’ll think about it.’ And he began to dance more than ever.

‘You had better take him home,’ said the ’Stute Fish to the Whale. ‘I ought to have warned you that he is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.’

-Rudyard Kipling, Just So Stories, "How the Whale Got his Throat"

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   Whether a man be killed by a rifle bullet through the brain, or blown into fragments by a high-explosive shell, may seem a matter of indifference to the conscientious objector, or to any other equally well-placed observer, who in point of fact is probably right; but to the poor fool who is a candidate for post-humous honours, and necessarily takes a more directly interested view, it is a question of importance.
   He is, perhaps, the victim of an illusion, like all who, in the words of Paul, are fools for Christ's sake; but he has seen one man shot cleanly in his tracks and left face downwards, dead, and he has seen another torn into bloody tatters as by some invisible beast, and these experiences had nothing illusory about them: they were actual facts.
   Death, of course, like chastity, admits of no degree; a man is dead or not dead, and a man is just as dead by one means as by another; but it is infinitely more horrible and revolting to see a man shattered and eviscerated, than to see him shot. And one sees such things; and one suffers vicariously, with the inalienable sympathy of man for man. One forgets quickly. The mind is averted as well as the eyes. It reassures itself after that first despairing cry: “It is I!”
   “No, it is not I. I shall not be like that.”
   And one moves on, leaving the mauled and bloody thing behind: gambling, in fact, on that implicit assurance each one of us has of his own immortality. One forgets, but he will remember again later, if only in his sleep.
   After all, the dead are quiet. Nothing in the world is more still than a dead man. One sees men living, living, as it were, desperately, and then suddenly emptied of life. A man dies and stiffens into something like a wooden dummy, at which one glances for a second with a furtive curiosity. Suddenly he remembered the dead in Trones Wood, the unburied dead with whom one lived, he might say, cheek by jowl, Briton and Hun impartially confounded, festering, fly-blown corruption, the pasture of rats, blackening in the heat, swollen with distended bellies, or shrivelling away within their mouldering rags; and even when night covered them, one vented in the wind the stench of death. Out of one bloody misery into another, until we break. One must not break. He took in his breath suddenly in a shaken sob, and the mind relinquished its hopeless business. The warm smelly darkness of the tent seemed almost luxurious ease. He drowsed heavily; dreaming of womanly softness, sweetness; but their faces slipped away from him like the reflections in water when the wind shakes it, and his soul sank deeply and more deeply into the healing of oblivion.

-Frederic Manning, The Middle Parts of Fortune

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Hello
What the hell am I doing here?
That's a really nice suit
This is a really comfortable chair
See I don't know if you can help me or not
Cause I don't feel sick
But the pains in my head have almost put me
Underground

I don't really care if I'm healthy or not
Just clean my head up Doc
I'll give you anything you want
See I don't know why I don't fall in love
Well maybe I know why and maybe you could make it stop
Then we'll cut it up and bury it and leave it
Underground

And I'll take to wishing and fall under
Sleeping safe and sound
Just give me medicine prescribe me anything
Just knock me out and walk me through the door
I have no desire to see through my own eyes anymore


- Alkaline Trio, Take Lots With Alcohol

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If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it.

-- WC Fields

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Your current Terror™ alert level is:

Terror Alert Level


firstashore. Trivialising terrorism since 2001.

Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? And ain't that a big enough majority in any town?
-- Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

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"Lisa, get in here! In this house we obey the laws of thermodynamics!"
-- Homer Simpson

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We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints...

   For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
   But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
   An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
   An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

- Rudyard Kipling, Tommy

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He's not smart, a C student
And that's after buying his way into school
Beady eyes, kinda dyslexic
Can he read? No one's really quite sure
He signs stuff and he executes people
Maybe that's why he doesn't have any friends
Cocaine and a little drunk driving
Don't matter when Daddy's Commander in Chief.

Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole

He's too dumb to eat pretzels
Apparently smart enough to fix an election
Moved boldly into the White House
Though most people voted against him
He likes naps, really likes naptime
A couple of naps and then a nap and then he's ready for bed,
He may be from Bush descent, but he's always gonna be the unpresident...


- NoFX, Idiot Son of an Asshole

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War is waged by men; not by beasts, or by gods. It is a peculiarly human
activity. To call it a crime against mankind is to miss at least half its
significance; it is also the punishment of a crime.

- Frederic Manning, The Middle Parts of Fortune


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Apologia pro Poemate Meo


I, too, saw God through mud —
      The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
      War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
      And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there —
      Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
      For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
      Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off fear —
      Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
      And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear
      Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;

And witnessed exultation —
      Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
      Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
      Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.

I have made fellowships —
      Untold of happy lovers in old song.
      For love is not the binding of fair lips
      With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

By Joy, whose ribbon slips, —
      But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
      Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
      Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
      In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
      Heard music in the silentness of duty;
      Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
      With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
      Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
      And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
      You shall not come to think them well content
      By any jest of mine. These men are worth
      Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.


- Wilfred Owen, November 1917


I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.
- Gandhi






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