An ode to one midsummer's morning in late February.

Oh midsummer's morn, what the hell are you doing in February? So far away from home, your presence makes me wary. Your beginning doth start like a gazelle on the plain, whatever the hell that means, it ends just the same. O, the night before was dreary, the noon's promise forlorn. What right have you, in February, to appear in such a form? I say to you, "but NO! I can't enjoy your weather!" You see, the thing I know, is your barometric pressure. As quite as low as yours is, a blizzard must be brewing. Your balmy temp seduces, but there's nobody you're fooling. O would your leaving could we stay, but the earth does not abide a vacuum in its way; it brushes you aside. The month must have its say, lest the Summer shift its date, go now but if you may, return in next June late. For on that day I'll wed--my true love will I marry, so I'll ne'er forget your stay, in dwarfish February.

This is a comment I recently wrote in the multiplayer handler class while programming a multiplayer game:


//This is known as the "Joe it's your turn" method, named after my brother who, while playing turn-based games,
//will always ask whose turn it is, especially during his turn, since he takes so long to play. Therefore,
//whenever anybody's turn comes up, all other players will notify them of such. Essentially, this is saying
//"Joe, it's your turn, Joe it's your turn, Joe it's your turn". This allows the remote application to play
//automatically if the player is not on the game screen to tell whether they should play or not. Unfortunately,
//my brother still takes forever. Sometimes I have to take his turn for him. In that case, take a look at the
//method above, "playerUnresponsive", for replacing a player with an automated version.


There is a place. This place is very real. When you're there, it is as surreal as sight to a blind man. It can be found past the source of wealth for dreamers, and far, far above just half of that which the meaning of cannot be ascertained by observers.

One is aware of this place only through song of the night. Only halfway between sleep and awake, can one even know of this place.

In this place, far far above, and beyond dreamers' gold, not only does the water reflect the sky. The sky, too, reflects the birds, and the music, and even the full moon, once in great while.

This place, real as it is, is a fairy tale. Stories told, thoughts remembered, nights left awake, or slept soundly; this, too, shall come to pass.

There is a time when a famous person will come to visit your city, town, what have you, you may make any entreaty of them that you like. When doing so, your prominence, stature, or caste doesn't even enter into it.

Yes, when famous people come to visit, and you request whatever you want, they will read your mind and make your worst nightmares come to life!

Zounds! That which embodies the proverbial barometer's quickly decreasing value terrifies me slightly!

However, I find pleasing the rapid oxidation of cellulose and fiber held together by lignin.

Additionally, inasmuch as between the two of us, neither could come up with a plan of what to do to save our lives, or possibly the universe has simply shrunk to contain only ourselves and our abode, we must allow the following:

Freezing precipitation, freezing precipitation, freezing precipitation.