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    San Diego State
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    Locked up naked with socks

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  1. As I understand it, the physiological aspect of the addiction only lasts 72 hours. The psychological component on the other hand can last a lifetime for some. Now that I've been a cigar smoker for some time, the idea of smoking a cigarette is just repulsive to me. It's like the difference between drinking Pappy's and drunkle's moonshine.
  2. For years, quitting smoking was the easiest thing to do - I must have quit at least 5, 6 times a year. I was a pack a day smoker for about 20 years. Unless I was overseas; then I smoked more. Used to love going on the patch... nothing starts your day quite like a 21mg punch of nicotine when you slap on that fresh patch in the morning. I was disappointed to learn "Step 2" only had 14mg, so I guess yo could say I was a Step 1 guy. But when it was time to stop, it really was easy... I just... stopped. A distant relative had recently gone through AA (or NA?) at the time and shared their mantra of one day at a time, of how you string together enough days and then you have a week, etc. I used to detest the smell of cigarette smoke, but not so much now - I'm more indifferent to it now I suppose. It did keep me from trying a cigar for years afterward however.
  3. I scored a Marathon OEM band that was made from Italian rubber. "Odd sizes" is the problem tho... maybe a more generic "Italian vanilla rubber" search might turn up something that's not NSFW?
  4. Now, for part 2... C. had several routines when we took him outside, and one of those was to check the 3-4 places around the perimeter where he would lay down a scent pretty much daily. I used to joke that he was “checking his c-mail” for messages from his “Canadian girlfriend.” I imagined him pining at night for some forlorn bobcat… So about a week after he passed, my wife comes downstairs in tears, saying she saw a cat on the roof and “C. saying goodbye” something something. I honest to God thought she had hallucinated it out of grief. It’s not that I didn’t believe her, but we’re in an open space in a rural area, and despite routine bobcat and coyotes sightings, rarer fox and weasel sightings, and even a mountain lion sighting a few years ago, in the nearly 20 years we have lived here, we have seen one - and exactly one - feral cat. There are simply too many apex predators (including about a half-dozen species of raptors) around for them to survive in this ecosystem. Which made it seem thatch more remarkable when several days later, what do I see but a cat sitting on the corner of our roof. Thus began what has been a paradoxical and parallel journey to my ongoing grief. Meet LooLoo (a.k.a., Loo, a.k.a., Loo C. Loo, a.k.a., Loo C. Fur, a.k.a., Loo Loo Dolls, a.k.a., Loo Daubs, a.k.a., Crawl Space Karen), who has been living for some indeterminate period of time in a den under our house, a literal shithole. Loo - so named because she treats pretty much everywhere as her own personal loo - was C.'s scent buddy, the Canadian girlfriend with whom he used to exchange "c-mail." I think when days passed without C. laying down his scent, she came out from hiding to look for her pee pal. The first two nights she came into the garage (I leave the door cracked for her), she dug around in C.'s litter box without actually using it. She is completely feral. Her clipped ear indicates she was trapped and spayed by the humane society before being released back onto the wild. I am her first human. Well, the first human who didn't trap her, veritably abduct her into a brick-and mortar spaceship, and proceed to drug her and cut her open before slicing off part of her ear. So you could say I am working with a deficit. C. still had a dozen or so cans of food and a bag of kibbel, which I felt he would have wanted me to give her. So I did. For the first week or so, she would run at first sight. But by the time both began to run out, something had happened. Loo no longer ran from the sight of me. We would sit there, in the same general space in the evening, watching the sun set together, and mourning C. After another week or so of talking to her gently, for the first time (I believe in her life) she meowed at me (cats meow only with other people, chat with prey animals, and howl at each other). That was 3-4 months ago. Now, we see each other at least twice daily. She routinely comes into the garage to eat at night, and has even ventured into the house on a few occasions. Still hasn't allowed me to touch her, but she'll come eat next to me and allow me to get almost within touching distance. I see her as C.'s gift to us, a parting gift for his studio audience. Her presence also explains his desire and incessant requests over the past couple years to go out at night when he never had before - it turns out it not uncommon for feral cats to retain some uteral tissue after having been spayed, which can still trigger the same hormonal cycles that make them go into heat. Looking back, I really think C. was indeed pining for his Canadian girlfriend... Every moment I spend with her now honors him. And she truly is a blessing in her own right - she cathartically helps me mourn, helps me channel grief into something more positive, and connects me to him in a living, breathing way. It goes without saying that I never would have had a chance to share my grief, or love, with this little girl if feral cats were culled.
  5. Ha, and no. And thank you for the sentiment. But this wasn't just a pet relationship. I'm an only child and have had pets my entire life. The closest thing I ever had to a brother was another cat (B.) that was a central part of my life from 13 through my 20s. C. was different. It was more like having a son with a terminal illness you knew would pass before you. I've been married for 20 years, and prior to that was engaged twice and had a live-in girlfriend for more than half a decade. Loved 'em all. Loved each and every one of the pets that were a part of my life. But I've never felt a love so profound as I had, and to this day still feel for C. I've lost, and mourned, and tossed dirt on the graves of loved ones, both family and friends. But I've never, ever, felt loss like this, this profound, this deep. It has been about nearly four months and I mourn, and grieve, deeply, every day. Not all the time, mind you - the daily ritual I've adhered to helps me keep those feels in silos so I deal with them while I go on about my life (though admittedly even talking about it now has me in tears yet again). I don't know when I will be ready to invest the love I had for C. Which makes for a great segue to what I wanted to wife as a follow-up to the last post...
  6. Meet C. I will leave it at "C," as this is too personal for me to share his name, which it uncommon if not unique. I was picking up my wife from work one night in the '00s when she heard a meow. C. had been abandoned at 8-10 months - he came right to me when I called him. Tossed my wife the keys and sat shotgun with C. in my lap. He dug his head into the space between my elbow and side and began loudly purring. It was if he had finally found his home. Thus began the greatest relationship either my wife or I have ever had in our respective lives. I was in my mid-30s, my wife in her mid/late-20s, and we were both in that primetime parenting mode. Work and our lives in general precluded us from having a child, but now we found ourselves dumping all that parent jones into... a cat. And he repaid it in spades. At 30-something, I was much more emotionally mature than I had been in my 20s, and found I had more love to give. C. became, and remains, the closest thing the Bump and I will ever know to having a son. He followed me around like a puppy dog everywhere I went, just like a six year old might follow his old man wherever he goes. We even learned to communicate with each other; he learned the meaning of no less than 14(?) words between English and my wife's mother tongue, and had at least as many unique vocalizations he would express himself. One of those words was "outside." Say this word, and you were guaranteed to here his footsteps (even his heavy "doomp-doomp" footfalls sounded more like a human's) as he came trotting to the front door from wherever he was. As we live in a rural area with no shortage of wild life, he only went outside when my wife or I could chaperone him, but between the two of us we tried to give him a morning and evening constitutional every day. We came to treasure our "outside time" together. Over 17 years he came to make me a better husband, my wife a better wife, and both of us better people. He taught us how to love each other better and gave us a true sense of family - every night for 17 years, we would tell him "bedtime," and/or "upstairs hoganna" ("let's go upstairs"), and soon thereafter the three of us would ascend the stairs, in tandem, usually in order of size with him in the lead, followed by my wife, then I. He has his own third of the bed (with a bed, some toys, and other shit on it), with my wife in the middle and me on the other side. When in country, this is how we slept, every night, for nearly two decades. I have never had a relationship, animal or human, into which I have poured so much love. And he returned it in spades. This is C. now. He was diagnosed with metastatic cancer late last year, and passed away earlier this year. His passing broke hearts on three continents, as he touched every soul he met. Every morning since he passed, I tell him "outside hoganna" and take that photo out and place it at his gravesite. Every evening, I return, play a few songs, shed a few tears, and tell him "mannagay hosanna" - Kannada for "let's go home" - and take the photo back in for the night. I am in tears as I write this. To this day, my wife and I still acknowledge we each loved him for than we love each other. He was an honor to his species, and a blessing to ours.
  7. From this evening: I forgot how much I like those Undercrowns.
  8. That's kind of what I got from that transcript.
  9. We had a feral cat show up on our roof in early March, only the second one I've seen in nearly twenty years here. She's gotten a couple birds as evidenced by the feather piles, but she's taking care of our rodent population, for which I'm grateful. Her clipped ear indicates she's been spayed by the humane society and released. I've been trying to build a relationship with her for 3 1/2 months now, and if we cross that kitten threshold will prly adopt her and bring her in.
  10. Fascinating. Siri's useless ass can go choke on a bag of digital dicks. I had dinner (7? 8?) years ago with a physicist who was part of a team in Dubai working on crossing the strong AI threshold w/in five years (at the time of our dinner). With the maturation of the industry over that time I guess I'm not in the least bit surprised to read that transcript.
  11. Ergo the term "spray and pray." And I wasn't knocking you per say, it's just that any reference to the aforementioned descriptor makes me cringe. I like RDR, but it lacks the sardonic tongue-in-cheek goodness of an EBR, IMO.
  12. As an OG member of the Black Sock Posse, that Freddie Mercury-after-AIDS-looking mother*cker needs to pick one or the other - black socks or orange shirts and a shart-covered stache... maybe trade them BSP-issue in for some tighty whitey crew socks to match yer BVDs. Also, I might move to AZ so I can run for state legislator just so I can introduce a bill to change their name to the Republic of Derpistan.
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