There's this meme thing going around in which one goes to find one's 42nd LJ post and evaluates it as the meaning of one's life. Mine is a locked thing, which summarises as follows:
While I was figuring out how to properly chronicle some highly involved, affectionate whimsy (involving strange naming practices, randomly brightening the day of a loved one, and silly uses of magic), my brother called me. He wanted to let me know that he and Dad had taken my advice on how to resolve their differences and were hoping to be on better terms henceforth.
That ... sounds about right. (The involved, affectionate whimsy is actually post #41, but it's referenced in post #42, so "While I was being very, very silly, I got a report in on my pastoral counselling" is a fair summary.)
I know I've used that post title before, but I think it's been a couple of years, so I can recycle an old joke. It goes with the mood, which is mostly full of the sort of emotion that's why I made this icon in the first place. I ... can't explain. I mostly just want to chronicle for the record. I will walk alone by the black, muddy river, singing a song of my own; all I wanted was a piece of the night.
While I was figuring out how to properly chronicle some highly involved, affectionate whimsy (involving strange naming practices, randomly brightening the day of a loved one, and silly uses of magic), my brother called me. He wanted to let me know that he and Dad had taken my advice on how to resolve their differences and were hoping to be on better terms henceforth.
That ... sounds about right. (The involved, affectionate whimsy is actually post #41, but it's referenced in post #42, so "While I was being very, very silly, I got a report in on my pastoral counselling" is a fair summary.)
I know I've used that post title before, but I think it's been a couple of years, so I can recycle an old joke. It goes with the mood, which is mostly full of the sort of emotion that's why I made this icon in the first place. I ... can't explain. I mostly just want to chronicle for the record. I will walk alone by the black, muddy river, singing a song of my own; all I wanted was a piece of the night.