The Lowest Common Denominator
That is a fair question, I suppose. I am Denny, or Dennis as the legal system would have you believe, though I am often identified as Firebomb on various hubs of online activity. I'd give you last names but why make it easier for you to kill me? And we both know you will want to kill me; it's only a matter of time, really. When anyone actually pays attention to the words coming out of my mouth, that seems to be the eventual outcome.
Not that you couldn't find it if you really wanted to, but meh. Enjoy your challenge. Anyway, I digress. I am something of a neurotic wreck, who has by this time finally patched his life back together. I was a bit of a wreck during a lot of my thirties, though I seem to have ironed out a lot of the problems that were dogging me. Some of it was my fault of course, and some of it was not, but that really applies to most folks I imagine.
'The human condition', and what have you.
I've actually managed to keep a job for over three years without being laid off by my current corporate overlords, and have been in a stable relationship with the most wondeful woman ever for over seven now. I guess that makes up for all the suck I had to deal with getting here, more or less. Sure, I am not filthy rich, yet, but all good things come to those who
wait work really hard and make it happen.
I am not perfect, nor do I claim to be. Arrogant and perhaps wielding a superiority complex regarding my fellow man? Sure. But a lot of that attitude is earned, mostly from the frighteningly consistent results I have had interacting with my 'fellow' human beings. Anti-social? You bet. A loud-mouthed agitator? Getting there. Mass murdering whack job? Well... all in due time.
But I keep a list. Remember that.
I currently work for an indescribably large corporation, building components for various military aircraft. I won't say which company, since you know, plausible deniability, but one of the things they manufacture bits for is the Global Hawk Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. Isn't it lovely? I also make assorted bits for the F-18 and C 130J as time permits.
Those fall under 'other duties as assigned'.
This beats working in an alarm dispatch center for ADT, which I did previously - at least, until our job was outsourced to India. If you've paid attention, that didn't go very well for the company, and they've since had to open several new centers to replace ours. I also used to do web site marketing on the side, but that also dried up for various reasons which also, incidentally, involve the nation of India. Sigh.
But other than work), I guess I'm a big-time nerd. I enjoy role playing games (mostly in real life, but some online), comics, bad cartoons, and really angry music. Mostly screamy heavy metal stuff but lately a lot of the surlier sounding electronic stuff. You'll see examples of that as I go down the road, which is a good indicator of my mood when ranting about something or other. Yay!
I am in Ohio. Yay! A different part of America - and no longer the hub of retardery that is Nebraska. At least physically, and currently. The plan, of course, is to Not Be Here eventually. Primarily this involves getting a large, isolated tract of land that Brenda and I can occupy all by ourselves, with only occasional air drops of frozen foods and that pesky post man interrupting our sweet, sweet solitude. Get off my lawn!
Ideally, this would involve the purchase of an island. Not necessarily a huge one, for they are expensive, but I have located many islands that you can buy on the cheap (after a fashion) that aren't too horribly small. They are mainly off the coast of Belize and they are awesome for a) they speak english in Belize, and b) they are surrounded by ocean. There are no people on the ocean! Save for pirates and cruise ships, anyway.
This is the ideal, but of course, buying an island and building a skull shaped fortress on it is a tricksy proposition. So plan b involves buying a large, cheap plot of land somewhere isolated, like in Montana or Missouri, and simply setting up shop in naught but overalls in the center of that, say, a square mile plot of land. The prices on that kind of isolation are much better and thus, probably more practical.
Until that time, I'm living on my virtual island. This island is in my head, you see, and a nice, happy place for me to go when I'm resisting the urge to throttle some inbred turd at work, or through the keyboard, or whatever. So when I say I'm on my Island, this is what I'm talking about. It means I'm Not Here, at least in the cerebral sense. At least until I have it for reals.
Then to heck with you all, I'm unplugged for good.
Chronologically speaking, I just hit 42, though I feel more like 901. The body, it fails me, the mind is going slowly, and sure enough the world is Passing Me By. I already say things like 'kids these days' and 'your music sucks balls'. As for the absolute when that I occupy, I think it's either thirty years ago or thirty years from now - but getting more specific is hard to do in small words.
I guess the problem is I fall into an 'antiquated' belief system, where I like to think people are responsible for their own fortunes, good or bad, and think the whole American culture of 'help I'm a victim and I shall sue you now' is utter crap. At the same time, I try to treat my fellow hoo-mans with respect and dignity, even if they're the total colostomy bags I have to tolerate to make money.
Similarly, I always had this feeling that things just never advanced as fast as they should have. I suppose I'm in the 'where's my jetpack' crowd, since you know, Popular Science was always saying by 1985 I'd have a flying car, we'd be all over space ,and we'd have crushed communism under the boot heel of enlightened democracy, and blah blah blah. Well, they got one bit right. Sorta kinda.
So I suppose I'm temporally displaced, at least in spirit. My mind's telling me it's 1979 or, alternately, 2039. And here I sit in a world with no personal flying cars, and that's overflowing with helpless victims. I'll tell you this, though: once I finagle viable time travel I'm going to the future and coming back to victimize your sorry selves. With my long-range digital butt-sex guns.
Well you know how it goes. Two teenagers get all boozed up one night, and the next thing you know...
At least, that's how it goes in the strictly anatomical sense. As for why I am here? That's a longer story. Primarily I'm here, now, 'cause I find griping about the world at the two or three people I actually have regular contact with isn't really sufficient. Not that they aren't good friends, mind you, so much as I don't like to dump my problems on people I like if I can help it. Call me crazy.
I am here to get things off my chest. This is my Venting Place, a plot of land I pass through en route to my Happy Place. The Boat Ride to my Virtual Island, as it were, where everything smells of roses and there are no people left to fill me with rage. Or to yell at me for not holding their hand through the most simplest of things that they normally do, every day, year in and year out.
So I'm here to rant, rave, fume, and gripe. But that's not all. Every once in a while when I just feel like writing, or posting weird photos, or rambling for no specific reason, I'll post here as well. So it won't be all bile that I have for you. But if you do like bile, I've got plenty to share here and there. Although, from what I hear, bile is quite bitter. Or is that just toxic?
Doing all right so far, but working on getting even better.
Thanks for asking!