Oz

It's official: I've orbited the sun almost exactly twenty times. Those of you who assume that this event will make me more adult-like will be sorely disappointed. I usually don't pay much attention to my birthdays, but it does feel weird to have lived for two decades. It's one of those milestone round numbers that humans were preconditioned to pay attention to.

It was my birthday and it's way too cold for October: both convincing arguments towards the idea of going Bronzing. Willow? Buffy? Xander? Painfully obvious Bueller joke?

Devon doesn't understand why I can't change my schedule: my fault, I'm usually easy-going when it comes to where and when we play. The worst of it is that I can't make him understand. I don't think he's likely to ask questions or find anything out if he did, but that doesn't relieve the stress of the situation. I hate this. More than usual, anyway.

I haven't seen anyone since the zombies attacked, so let me just say that I hope normalcy is being restored. It's been a rough summer. I want past it.

All right. I've checked out the cage and helped Giles install stronger locks. I know I'm being paranoid, but we haven't done this in a few months and I don't want anything going wrong. Can't risk it. I'm angrier than usual, which feels weird. I don't know if that's going to effect how I am when the wolf takes over. Keep the tranquilizer gun handy and don't develop any qualms over using it. I don't think I can get out of that cage, but I don't want to take any chances.

I wonder if this will ever start feeling routine. It shakes me more than I'd like to admit.

Keep your beach bashes and mysterious masques: a hootenanny has no hoot unless the nanniers get to fight off evil gang members. Devon might be an idiot who I'd like to somehow maim and disfigure for not listening, but it turns out he can at least make a decent barricades when he's needed. Maybe we can work out a rock revival of Les Miserables if I ever feel like speaking to him again.

I can't play tomorrow night. I can't play the night after that or the third night, either, which makes rescheduling the TRIC gig next to impossible. There are dates that I can't play. This wouldn't be a problem if I knew ahead of time that the only way to get Devon to pay attention is to include "beer", "girl", or "hey, that girl has beer" in whatever you have to say. I told him not to book those dates, and -- you know, it doesn't even matter. We're not playing the TRIC. The story kind of ends there.

You know, being in a seemingly improvisational alternative rock band doesn't sound like a bad idea until you realize that you're the only one who's practiced all summer and that what's improv to you is the song you wrote three years ago to the other musicians. Passable music if all you want to do is dance, maybe, but if you were actually listening to more than the beat I wouldn't be surprised if your ears are bleeding. It seems I'm the only responsible Dingo left, which is wrong in a whole plethora of ways. At least I badgered Devon into crafting some sort of practice schedule. He has classes to go to, maturity to develop, college girls to woo, etc, but he'll come around once he realizes that his fangirls only fangirl when there's something worthy of fangirlishness. Please don't let one singer's idiocy ruin your future baby-eating experiences. If you were displeased by tonight's 'entertainment', please express this by hitting Devon across the head with your laptop. I'm not allowed to touch the drums and I'm not risking my guitar.

I've scanned Neptune's database, and I'm disappointed to inform you all that there's no big bad behind the distribution of these laptops. There's not even a minuscule bad. They're clean -- not so-squeaky-clean-that-they-have-to-be-hiding-something, but ordinary, boring clean. The only way they could read your private entries is by standing behind you and peering over your shoulder. Their files all indicate that they're doing this for the publicity. I'm actually a little disappointed in them.

Has anything positive happened in anybody's life? Mild irritation loves company, you know.

Well, anyone who knows anything at all about me should know that this typing-out-thoughts thing isn't exactly something that appeals to me. It takes too long. I mean, my WPM and accuracy rate were perfected by the cruel masters Mavis and Beacon and I can hammer out whatever you want me to in less time than it takes for you to say it, but it's still too long. Journals are for recording thoughts, and I don't like laboring over my thoughts; it makes me doubt them, and then the glorious spontaneity that is my Mind is reduced to rambling paragraphs about cheesecake and pianos. It's not funny if I don't get a chance to properly voice my logical process, and that process moves too fast for me to capture it on this computer, and that's just not fair.

So let's skip the cheesecake joke and move on to what's got to be in the back of everyone's minds. I don't know the inner workings of anyone else's brain, but I know that mine isn't the only one that finds this Neptune contract suspicious. Companies don't give away laptops unless they have good reasons to, and "exploring the way highschool students interact" is usually legalese for "let's cover up a mess by donating things". This doesn't sit right with me.

I think it's time for some good, old-fashioned hacking. (I wonder what hacking was like in the days before computer databases. I'm picturing men in ski masks rifling stealthily through those old card catalogues. Curse you, Giles; I've spent too much time in the library.) Who's with me? Provided there isn't some other form of evil to fight, of course.