Midnight Jolt Run

Caffeine tastes better when the city's asleep

My Limerick Virginity has been lost…

Posted by Fiss on July 14, 2014

A wild maiden aimed to settle downcc01159b-tavern-maiden-medieval-bar-wench-maid-costume

So she let it fly at the pub in the town:

She’d an ale consumption contest

To determine the hardiest best

And would present to that man in a gown.

 

Many confident men came a calling

For her beauty they drank until crawling

But the maiden had a trick

A candle and magical wick

To allow her to keep drinking without falling!

 

Now Sir Fry was a humble young knight

Who had loved the sassy maiden – first sight!

And so when it came to his turn

Beneath her skirt he did adjourn

And the maiden’s face became surprise and alight!

 

Onward the night progressed rather swimmingly

Her opponents challenged her contest willingly

But a quarter to seven or eight

She stood to announce her fate

“I’m afraid none I see survived winningly!”

 

You all showed yourselves quite able

And drank enough to enter into a fable

So to you, I cannot lie

The winner must be Sir Fry!

For he drank me right under the table!”

 

=-
Studio Shinnyo 2014.  Khattam-Shud, EOF.
Posted under Poetry

Fiss Chow Alpha – Day 1

Posted by Fiss on June 10, 2014

work.6847455.1.sticker,375x360.contents-unprocessed-soylent-green-sticker-v1One of the hardest face-slaps I received in the year of 2013 was realizing just how far I had let my health deteriorate from nearly half a decade of graveyard shifts.  This and the exponentially hard eating and exercise habits gleaned from such a lifestyle that had been drilled into my soul like a strange reverse boot-camp.

Before I had spawned a youngling I spent eight or so months on a low-carb, low-cal, low-everything diet and had actually succeeded in trimming down, improving my health and feeling better about my ghostly meat-skeleton arrangement.  It didn’t last, as I said I did gain back a lot of weight, but it took more than five years, a stressful handful of management changes, making a baby and continuing to pretend to be a responsible adult to make it finally happen.  Even so, the ease of weight loss I experienced gave me a perpetually false sense of security; that I could re-drop the weight and feel better nearly whenever I wanted if I just put my mind to it.

Yeah.  Right.  I seem to recall writing only one thing was ever easy, and it sure ain’t living.

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Posted under Colapost, Manifestoes

Of Chum, Chances and Family

Posted by Fiss on August 25, 2013

I want to share with you the moment today in which I seriously thought:  “What the hell is the point of all this?” Kawaiiiiiii!

Before anyone starts shoveling Suicide Prevention Hotline numbers toward me, though, I should clarify that this thought occurred as I stood in line, hot, moody and miserable, in order to get autographs from the voices of multi-coloured cartoon ponies.  This, coupled with similar moments fresh in my mind from May…standing in line…standing in line…paying money and then standing in more lines…really got me thinking if maybe I was done.  Maybe I needed to re-evaluate my Geek Card.  My Nerd Chic was fading.  The Fandoms…be it SciFi, or Magical Friendship Equines….were starting to fade.   Would it really be so hard to just skip the next convention?  Maybe the next two?  Three?  Nine?   And as I weighed in on the internal battle for my squeeing-fanboy-voice versus the sheer insanity that is a Fan Convention exposing its seedy underbelly in my general direction like an unwanted mooning.

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Posted under Manifestoes

OATZ. SQUATZ. REPEAT.

Posted by Fiss on April 4, 2013
OATZ N SQUATZ FOR SNOWFLAKE!

OATZ N SQUATZ FOR SNOWFLAKE!

In the last 2 months, I’ve suffered 3 different colds/flus, spiking blood pressure (low AND high) dizziness, dehydration, heart palpitations, unreasonable fatigue, and in general have been more frustrated and depressed now than any time in the last 10 years of my life. I’m tired of wondering if a heart attack or stroke is just around the corner and knowing that I can’t even leave my desk for a proper break due to the fact there is nobody else on the clock with me for a large portion of the week. This clusterfuck of trouble is not new…it is persistent, and I believe it is getting worse.

So, here’s a bit of an update for my family and friends: I’ve thrown down the gauntlet and informed my boss I am no longer available to do Graveyard shifts due to the ongoing lack of support, coverage and flexibility inherent in the shift and our team’s staff levels. I’m done killing myself so they can pretend to save a buck, or placate me with the promise of changes that could be extremely beneficial, but then tell me months later that we can’t do anything but stay the course. (2 years+ of this bait-and-switch is enough.) I have been working at Telus for almost 10 years, and this is the first time in ALL my working life I’ve had to take a step back and say: That’s enough.

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Posted under Fiss' Daily Jolt

Bloom part 1

Posted by Fiss on August 6, 2012

She wakes up at a quarter to four, spends a futile sixty seconds trying to pretend sleep will return, and lets out a three year old sigh when it is denied.

A bad case of electrocution brought on by careless co workers, badly grounded high heels, and some truly comedic timing had been the culprit.  The doctor said she’d have problems sleeping now.  The doctor told her her body would be different after the accident and she would have to relearn some of the more rudimentary things she once took for granted.  The doctor told her there could be other side effects, like sleepwalking, hallucinations, and panic attacks.  The doctor was full of shit; if she got to sleep on time all the other stuff would go away without the medication.
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Posted under Short Stories

Thank you for completing our Survey!

Posted by Fiss on June 1, 2012

At work,  I have occasionally needed a password reset due to forgetting which program I am currently logged into, or somebody attempting to log in using my computer and not changing the user-name before locking me out due to too many unsuccessful attempts.  No problem.  We have a handy dandy help desk that we call POC, or “Point of Contact”.   I call them up, talk to a polite, nice young man or woman, and within 5 minutes my new temporary password is in my inbox and I can move on with my life.

Unfortunately, I work for a Corporation, and someone decided that a 4 page, 24 question survey about my “experience” was necessary to judge the effectiveness of the service I used.   This survey, even if I didn’t read it and selected “Excellent” for every question, takes longer to complete than it did to actually get my password reset.  This is not the first time they’ve sent me a survey, either.  At the end of the first, I warned them that if they didn’t streamline the process and have a smaller, quicker, more relevant questionnaire, I would make them pay.

They didn’t listen.  So here was my response for Survey # 2:

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Posted under Manifestoes

Misappropriation of Lottery Funds

Posted by Fiss on May 2, 2012

Everyone dreams of what they would do with a giant novelty cheque proudly displaying upwards of six or seven zeroes before the decimal point.  Somehow matching those five, six or more random numbers on your little piece of paper bought on a whim at the corner store, you’d put off even checking until you heard from your co-workers or friends that someone in your city won the jackpot.  When you finally do check them and magically obtain a lifetime’s worth of cash in a single instant.  It would be surreal…a true dream like event.

Maybe that’s why so many people like to dream about it.  I think deep down we all know the chances are pretty good you’ll get twenty or thirty bucks back on the hundreds you’ll spend on lotto tickets throughout your life, but just having that hypothetical “chance” seems to be a therapeutic bonus all in itself.  Most folk would pay off debts and travel.  Buy a house…maybe houses for all their loved ones if the amount is big enough.  A flashy car, a shiny TV, maybe even a suit worth more than one’s entire previous wardrobe.

Of course the real fun comes in imagining what you would BLOW your cash on.  If you paid your bills, gave to your charities and already did all the moderately responsible things you knew to do with your cash, but still had a LOT more…well…I know people who would buy islands, travel to space, buy thousands of Twinkies or blow a million in a weekend trip to Vegas.

But for me?  Honestly?  I’d save a few grand to build horrific monoliths of evil.
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Posted under Manifestoes

The Cost of a Shit to Give

Posted by Fiss on January 20, 2012

Somewhere between realizing that the Power Rangers aren’t real, and seeing your parents or guardians as fallible human beings instead of invincible protectors or tyrannical monsters, you begin to realize that there are problems in the world that do not centre around your ability to have ice-cream for dinner or a receiving a skinned knee.  In fact, as your mind opens up to accept more and more of the horrors around you, I’d dare think that you form a strong consensus in your mind that GI Joe was lying when he said that knowing was half the battle, and that red-and-blue lasers were the other part of the equation.

It isn’t long before you realize that no matter how many bake sales you run, hugs you give and Band-Aids you hand out to people that you can never do enough.  There are always more problems.  Worse is when you start to see the really terrible ones advertised on TV like some kind of rolling guilt trip to haunt your impressionable young mind.  Giving begins as a fun thing you do at holidays or for birthdays, and is transformed into something that seems absolutely vital for the continued survival of the human race.  Maybe it is.  Maybe it isn’t.  But it sure does feel like it when you see kwashiorkor-bellied children suffering bare-footed in the dirt of some God-forsaken shithole in Africa.

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Posted under Manifestoes

Piss-Warm 2012

Posted by Fiss on January 4, 2012

I have felt sadness before.  Loathing and anger are no strangers to my emotional pallet, and I can tell you of bitter swallows of both heartbreak and unrequited desire.  Ahh yes, yet they were always the kind of drink that scalded the throat, lightened the wallet and will…and ultimately taught me a lesson, desired or not.  But this…this is a watered down pint of spirits.  This strange, weak emotive mead is brewed not of the deepest sorrow, nor the sharp tang of regret.  It is stale, and it is hateful and I know it will not allow me to drink deeply of it so I may lose it in a hangover the next day.  I drink of piss-warm egotism, and yet I can’t bring myself to walk over to the toilet and deposit the liquid where it rightfully belongs.

Maybe it is the occupying of my thoughts that makes this so unique.  I feel sad, but not so sad as to rise up and resolve against all those sad things in the world.  I feel angry, but only as much as a frustrated houseplant must feel when someone nudges its vase.  I wallow and groan, but if I were to try to share my defeat with the many caring and lovely people in my vicinity, I am instantly rendered ashamed and would dare not continue past a noncommittal huff.  I almost believe it conquerable by a little will, a little smile and a pinch of the better sugars of our nature.  Yet the tears come, they sting, and they tell me I must continue feeling like this a little while longer, though they barely threaten to escape the lacrimal gland.

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Posted under Colapost, Manifestoes

Old Goats

Posted by Fiss on June 15, 2011

My earliest memories are a jumble of three images.  One was me, crying in my crib, angry at an imposed curfew but otherwise, just darkness, and a semi-out of body experience where I imagine seeing myself, howling into the night, raging against sleep, and eventually…succumbing.

The second earliest memory is of a car crash.  Truck crash, specifically.  I remember in great detail and environmental awareness of the moments beginning with me looking out a window in the Ford pickup being driven by my mother down the highway, and then crawling around on the upside-down-overturned truck cabin roof, avoiding the pebble-like broken safety glass that was everywhere, and crawling out onto the highway to the waiting arms of my mother who had, until that moment, assumed I had been crushed under the truck or thrown free of the wreck into a fence somewhere.

The third is much more green.  Running back and forth around the back yard of my grandparent’s lawn in Fort St. John at the age of…well, I was at the oldest four years olf.  I remember the feeling of the sloped lawn under my feet as I ran from the house to the small drainage ditch that broke the lawn up into a hill and an island when it rained.  I remember the smell of peas and ruhbarb and the taste of fresh carrots straight from the earth and the plesant cold sting of icey cold water right from the garden hose.  I remember countless times over countless years of that same backyard, and the layout of the home attached to it.  My Grandparents home.  With a simple one-story design, with a caveronous, adventure-sparking cellar underneith known only as the “Mole Hole” in which treasures like pickled carrots and mushroom soup lay dormant and pensive upon a noble and brave soul’s journey down the home-made rickety steps.

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Posted under Colapost