I’m In The Strange Part of Niff’s Blog Again…

Sometimes I peek into my blog backend (get your mind out of the gutter) and see that I have some “drafts” – half-begun, well-meaning blog entries that never quite made it off the ground.  Either that or I just gave up and turned them into a Facebook status update.
But this?  Dude.  I just…I don’t even.

I call this “Miscellaneous Draft Blog #12”.  Enjoy.

The flipacoin algorithm?
Coworker Quote of Seattle, There are 7+ billion people in my life and wonder how I feel so creepy.
I hate the merits of my shoulder.
There’s actually a photo of my seizures but not be yet a knave Larkspur’s not quite sure about this pattern of mismatching food to sit further away from start to reach maximum efficacy, and laparoscopic abdominal nodes. Ok, I cannot articulate the team.
Yes, I’m not getting into a penguin.
Discovering you’ve got my head.
Jennifer is an incapacitated level. Using this mime emoticon, because Facebook seems to be there a halfeaten bag of my Americano was, in on my lap all of Vogon laundromat, or something.

Don’t Read the Comments

ImageI can’t tell if I have a problem with follow-up or with commitment.  From the looks of my Gmail account, I’m willing to wager that it’s a little bit of both.

Despite the massive inventory of my inbox, I was more fascinated by the population of my “drafts” folder.  Upon closer inspection, a vast majority of these emails were intended responses to pre-existing threads, incomplete compositions to ex-boyfriends (almost all of which, unfinished, and rightly so) and quite a few addressee “draft” and the subject line left unforgivingly blank.

I confess an urge to simultaneously hit “send all” on the long-forgotten compositions, if only to confuse/astound would-be recipients.  The “draft/blank” entries would sadly be omitted, unless I just type in random letters and let autocomplete populate the email addresses as they will.  I could just attribute the en masse mailing to the recent Gmail glitch and thereby avoid any and all accountability.

The “inbox” situation I have no decent excuse for.  It’s merely a testament to my email laziness.  I was one of the rare few who was pleased that Gmail opted to segregate incoming messages into perceived “legitimate” emails versus “promotional”, “updates”, “social” and “forums”.  The downside to this high-level of Gmail organization is that I now realize how very few emails I receive that are genuinely intended for my eyes only.  They’re either bulk mailings, special offers or mass invites to an event.  To the point where I will oftentimes email myself with a reminder, or a URL, and then I see the (1) next to my inbox I think, “Oh!  I got a messa – oh, wait.”  =/


Voulez-voulez-vous you’ve not got mail.

Hello. My name is Niff. And I hate Firefly.

When I used to work with DaBoon we would often have conversations that could not be summarized into a narrative, so I ended up just copying and pasting the entire conversation verbatim into my blog, or whatever.
So, after just having a conversation with another friend of mine about being judged by people for not liking certain elements of pop culture and televised media that seem to be ubiquitous amongst my like-minded friends, Rochelle and I re-enacted what is the usual response from people I know when I admit that yes, I in fact, do *not* like Firefly.
Niff: LAZY SUNDAY!  Yeeah
Rochelle: watched some firefly with the roommates
Niff: Ugh – firefly
Rochelle: had delicious thai food
Rochelle: and some pie
Rochelle: WHAT!
Niff: PIE
Rochelle: you don’t like firefly? 😉
Niff: Yes.  It’s true.  I don’t like firefly
Rochelle: OOOOO them’s fightin words
Niff: Dude, don’ gimme any of yer shit, man
Niff: I got plenty of other geek creds
Rochelle: HA!
Rochelle: do you like other Whedon shows?
Niff: I think you may need to brace yourself for this one
Niff: I HATE Joss Whedon
Rochelle: you hate joss?
Rochelle: JOSS?
Niff: dude
Rochelle: WHY!!!1
Niff: I don’t need to explain myself to you, you freakin’ Whedon Fangirl!
Niff: I learn nothing watching his version of “sci fi”!
Niff: Besides, you don’t watch Stargate!
Rochelle: hahahahaha
Rochelle: I’m not certain how I should be feeling right now.
Rochelle: Guilty
Rochelle: Sad?
Rochelle: Anxious that you’ll stop being friends with me now?
Niff: Judgmental?  You can throw that in there
Rochelle: HAHAHA
Rochelle: Wait…-I’m- being judgemental?
Niff: Dude, yeah!  I only threw out Stargate to defend myself!
Niff: See what you made me do??
Niff: You’re not supposed to be mean to me on my birthday!
Niff: *sob*
Rochelle: OMG girl
Rochelle: check yerself before you wreck yerself
Niff: Between my hatred of firefly and dislike for chocolate I was almost thrown out of the house. 😀
Niff: I’mma blog this conversation
Rochelle: sweet
Rochelle: Imma gonna be famous!
Niff: I think you overestimate the readership of my blog…
Niff: It’s not like I’m freakin’ Joss Whedon or anything.
Rochelle: hahahaha
Rochelle: Or Nathan Fillion
Rochelle: Mmmm….
Niff: Who the hell is Nathan Fillion?
Rochelle: Firefly – Captain of the ship…also star of Castle
Rochelle: Love him.  Would have his babies fer sure.
Niff: I want Captain Jack Harkness’ babies.  But, I’m barren and he’s gay, so I don’t really see that working out.
And that’s it.  That’s all I’ve got.  Go ‘way.

What this blog needs is more brain eating zombies.

Last weekend I learned the mechanics of creating a typeface.  In case you didn’t know – making a font is mind-bendingly complicated.  It’s like photo editing gone mad.

Screen Shot 2013-09-21 at 5.57.10 PMThis was my result after three days of bad posture and squinting at my 15-inch laptop screen.  I was trying to find a word that featured the best fruits of my labor.  Apparently a wizened wizard from Middle Earth was the only thing that would suffice.

Oh, and then there’s pi:

Screen Shot 2013-09-27 at 10.05.16 PM

I named my font “pomme”.  It started out as “pomplemousse” but I got bloody fucking tired of typing out “pomplemousse” every thirty minutes and abandoned the idea of naming my font after French citrus.  Great workshop though; three days, 10 hours each day.  The instructors were funny.  They wore t-shirts with typography jokes on them.  We went to happy hour.  We had painfully long critiques.  People opined.  And now I can’t stop working in Font Lab.  My Doctor Who scarf, as a result, is being largely ignored.

I’m currently watching a documentary called “Room 237”.  Well, ok not really.  It’s on in the background while I’m in the midst of this feeble attempt to crank out a blog entry.  Facebooking is killing my blog.  The irony?  I pay for the blog.

I am Jack’s epic facepalm.

I actually find myself scrolling through old Facebook posts looking for ideas to blog about.

Ok, so I’m ‘sort-of’ watching this Shining documentary.  On that note, careening head-first down a large flight of stairs looks painful.  I wonder if that was really Jack Nicholson or a stunt-double. My vote is for stunt-double.  Also, whatever happened to the Big Wheel?  I had one as a kid; I remember that the front wheel, over time, developed a flat edge on a ten-inch section of the arc of the wheel as a result from braking at what would appear to be the same spot repeatedly.  The result was an audible “thunk-a thunk-a thunk-a” during normal operation.  I suppose that’s motivation to learn to ride a bike.

Something occurred to me yesterday while I was sitting at my desk snacking on  gluten-free granola from Pike Place Market and becoming increasingly focused on extracting the raisins from aforementioned bag:  just why do raisins plucked from a cacophony of other ingredients taste so much better than raisins à la carte?  Rochelle claims that Jesus would know.  I can’t say I agree with that assessment…I mean, how popular could  gluten-free granola be in Galilee or Judea in 36 AD?  Perhaps if I’m ever witnessed to I will ask them.

– “Excuse me, but have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”
– “Uh, no…but I have a question.  Does Jesus know why raisins extracted from a bag of gluten-free granola are so much tastier than raisins on their own?”
– “So you haven’t opened your heart up to Jesus?”
– “Not unless he can answer intelligently about my raisin question.”


Voulez-voulez-vous pomplemousse.

This is what happens when I’m up at 4 am.

Two Starbucks, two cities, two approaches.

The U District Starbucks, when you make a purchase in the wee hours as I just did, the cashier asks,
“Would you like a treat receipt?”

Now, for those that are unfamiliar, a Treat Receipt is a voucher that entitles the bearer to a complimentary caffeinated beverage at a time of day that is, on the whole, inconvenient on two counts:
1. It is at 4pm, when I am hauling ass to wrap up my workday, and
2. If I hope to have any amount of decent sleep, I cannot consume caffeine after 1pm.

I don’t often patronize the U District Starbucks, as I usually carpool with my coworker and we stop at the Starbucks inside the Safeway in North Bellevue. More often than not, this proves to be a frustrating enterprise. We’ve noticed the grocery store franchises are the places where they send the most inept and uncommunicative of all baristas. My most recent grudge is the Treat Receipt.

“Here’s your treat receipt!!!!” (In a very nasally, high-pitched squeaky voice, delivered with a nightmarish Pennywise-like smile complete with cocked head.)
“Uh, no, that’s ok.”
“No, here, you get a free coffee!!”
“No, that’s ok, I don’t want it. Really.”
“Are you sure? If you come in at 4pm you get a free beverage!!!”
“No, because I’m working at 4 pm and I can’t have caffeine at 4 pm or I won’t sleep.”
“But we have decaf!!!”

At this point, mostly because I was pre-caffeinated, it was taking every ounce of impulse control I had not to jump up onto the counter in my 3-inch Danskos, grab the receipt and shove it into her idiotic, vapid, grinning face. I mean honestly!! This is like, Treat Receipt harassment. Who DOES that? I mean, I can’t imagine the twit gets any incentive for giving away free coffee. Bloody hell.

Compared to the adorable boy at the U District Starbucks:

“Would you like your treat receipt?”
“No thanks.”
“Ok! Have a great day!”

Egads! After days of Treat Receipt harassment I wanted to snuggle-tackle this young man. Who looked 12. Which now sounds really gross. Ew.

Anyway. That’s it. I’m at the bus stop at 6:30 am. So, uh. Yeah.


Hello.  My name is Niff.  And I am a Goo Hoarder.

The below media is intended for educational purposes only:

Fortunately my Goo seems to be restricted to lip adornment and has not yet evolved into hair care or nail polish.  Which is probably best, because as I have four housemates, space is limited.

Allow me to demonstrate:


So. This was the mass of products just in my backpack. This doesn’t count the ridiculous cacophony of pink tubes stashed away in the wicker baskets under my bed. Sephora LOVES me.  The number of points I’ve burned through is completely mad.  I acknowledge this isn’t healthy.  I realize that there isn’t a single person who needs all of this crap for their face.  I suppose I could find some comfort in knowing that I am not alone in my addiction…but not really.

I seriously don’t think I’ve finished a tube in my life.  I go to the drugstore for ibuprofen and walk out with Goo.  I go to Nordstrom for shoes…walk out with Goo.  Groceries?  Yeah.  Goo.  You will notice that all of the colors above are basically the same bloody color.  But I keep accumulating more, as if they will suddenly halt all Goo production and I will be left with Goo-less lips.  People have Zombie Plans but what about a Goo-Drought contingency?  Yeah.

Oddly enough, Goo is ridiculously cumbersome, despite what would, in all appearances, seem like an obsessive love affair: it attracts hair like freaking velcro and then you get to pull your Goo-covered hair off of your face.  It’s like face mortar.  And for some inexplicable reason, during my morning prep routine, in what I’m sure is a misplaced sense of efficiency, I plop this slimy mess on before I engage in my dental hygiene regimen.  Which means that not only have I successfully removed all of the afore-applied Goo, but now the crap is all over my hands and toothbrush and, somehow, my face.  I acknowledge this may be user error.  I think my body is absorbing all of this Goo, the lipids are being transported into my blood stream where they are carried to my brain and thusly clog all the areas of my brain responsible for rational decision-making skills.  Seriously.  Like some kind of Goo-induced aneurism.  Gooneurism.  Jesus, see?  No sane person comes up with that shit.

Voulez-voulez-vous I NEED THAT SCIENCE.


  • Why does the hold music on every conference call bridge I call into sound like bad porn tuneage?
  • My office phone isn’t working.  I don’t know whether to be irritated or relieved.
  • Why does my office smell like pumpkin?  And I don’t mean that super-awesome pumpkin pie-like smell.  This smells like gutted jack-o-lantern pumpkin.
  • Why is this pile of chocolate on my desk looking strangely appealing?  I dislike chocolate.
  •  There’s a woman in my office complex who drives an antiquated, lumbering RV to work every day.  Her average speed is approximately 5mph, which makes it decisively inconvenient to get into the parking lot and park your car with any certain level of expediency or efficiency.  Out of curiosity, once I decided to pseudo-stalk her by peering at her vehicle from between our creative director’s blinds in his office.  (Despite his expected confusion with regards to my presence at his office windows he humored me nonetheless…)
    After a considerable amount of time (and by considerable, I mean approximately 20 minutes) the door finally stirred, and with a great deal of effort she lumbered out of what is presumably her home-away-from-home.  This led to a string of conversations theorizing about her pre-disembarkation practices within; including basic hygiene, housekeeping, tending to her menagerie of cats (the existence of felines has not been proven, we are making a judgement call), and watching re-runs of St. Elsewhere on VHS.  We then decided getting to work would be a good idea.
  • Why are college kids so navigationally challenged?  A large porion of my pedestrian commute home involves a one-mile trek through the University of Washington campus and surrounding area.  Which ultimately involves wading through swarms of aimless, perpetually disoriented UW denizens.  Most of the time they are so clueless because they are attempting to get from point A to point B while simultaneously trying to operate some variant of technological gadgetry.  This is apparently an insurmountable task.  I have, as of late, taken to subtly body-slamming them in order to get my point across.  Sadly, they rarely notice.
  • My neighbors panhandle on the I-5 on-ramp with signs that read “homeless.  anything helps”.  This is a blatant lie.  I have a view from my upstairs bathroom into their living room where I see them in front of their wide-screen TV eating takeout and getting whiffs of rather foul-smelling weed.  I’m not spying on them deliberately, mind you.  They just have very large picture windows and it’s just hard to avoid.  Perhaps I should buy them some miniblinds.  I wonder if that falls under the rubric of “anything helps”.
  • How did Taylor Swift get onto my Spotify playlist?  I feel violated.
  • There are Nerf darts with “Thug Lyfe” and “Azn Pryde” written in Sharpie on them placed strategically on my desk.  Puzzlement abounds.
  • The apple on my desk is wearing my sunglasses.  (The fruit, not the laptop.)  Weird.


Internal monologue.

5:10 am, Saturday.

Me: Hey, brain? It’s Saturday. TOO EARLY, man. Go back to sleep.
Brain: But, I wanna get up.
Me: I don’t. You can get up at 5am on Monday.  Today?  Sleep.
Brain: Sigh. 

7:15 am, Saturday

Me: Whaddahell??
Brain:  I gave you two bloody hours! What, are you a lazy teenager all of a sudden?
Me: It’s the principle of the thing…
Brain: What time did you go to bed?
Me: I duno, 11, maybe?
Brain: And it’s 7 now, that makes 8 hours.  That is absolutely sufficient.
Me: But the point of the weekend is to oversleep.
Brain: Considering that you usually get around 6 hours during the week due to your pesky Netflix habit, you have succeeded.
Me: But –
Brain: My logic is undeniable.
Me: Sigh


“Great balls of fire! Don’t bother me anymore, and don’t call me sugar!”

Only until recently did I notice that the WordPress interface on my website stockpiles the comments I receive into a folder where they eagerly await my approval in order for them to appear on the corresponding blogs. When I saw the number 3,543 next to the “Comments” folder, my initial thought was, “Wow, I have far more readership than I thought!” and thus began the arduous task of perusing through the long list of commentary through my “beloved fans”, as it were. Until…

…I realized that this “comments” folder was pretty much the WordPress equivalent to my Spam folder on Gmail. The only downside is, WordPress has no method for separating the good eggs from the bad, so in order for me to cherry-pick the actual, real comments out from the “Buy your Viagra online!” posts, I have to scroll through them one.at.a.time. All 3,000+ of them.

Granted this task was not met with a great deal of enthusiasm. However, as my modus operandi as of late has been to see the Silver Lining, I figured the best approach would be to browse through all of them, looking for the valid, the mad, and inane. A shockingly large number of them were mind-bogglingly irrelevant to the post. But, I kind of invite that.

Some examples, if you are interested.

I wrote a post back in 2008 about Wikipedia Loops. Feel free to click the link and peruse at your leisure. At any rate, I found that the user “Adeyoyin” had posted the following diatribe in response to this post:

“that she’s been distancing hseerlf from everything, what sort of psychological thing does this mean. I’ve told her about how I feel and how badly I just want her to come home in person and through text messages, and when I text message her she wont answer me at all, and will only answer me if it has something to do that concerns her. She doesn’t like to be criticized at all, and she’s been screwing up a lot lately and it’s really hard for me to bite my tongue because I can’t stand irresponsibility. No matter how sweet I am, or the things I do or say, doesn’t seem to phase her at all. She left me once a while back when she got pregnant and came home 5 weeks later. So this isn’t the first time that she’s left me. I will quote her in a message she sent me. You don’t love me for who I am, you want me to change everything. You kept your hopes up that I’d change for you, but nothing will, I did the same for you. And it’s not going to bring me back. I have come to accept that if I stayed with you, we’d never be happy. We’d always have a problem, it has to be time to move on. I can’t live the rest of my life like that. The things that she’s refering to as changing for me meaning, she was a complete slob, wouldn’t clean anything, would make messes all the time, wouldn’t ever make dinner, wouldn’t buy groceries, and wouldn’t take care of our baby properly. I’d come home from work at the end of the day and our baby wouldnt be fed at all, or she would just feed her raman noodles or muffins from McDonalds. And her keeping up her hopes that I would change for her, meaning that I would lay off and stop telling her to be responsible.If anyone has experienced this in their lives, please share with me how you dealt with it, or how you got her to come home. Or in this case, if you’re a woman and a man did this to you, let me know how it worked out. I just want her to come home, and it’s been a month already and she doesn’t seem to want to come back but I’d like to change that.”

I did not correct their typos. I felt it was best to preserve artistic integrity.
I’m not sure if this person thought that my blog comment box was a personal journaling space, or some kind of message board for relationship issues, but…um. I thought about providing some feedback, but that would require me to “Approve” their post, and I like to keep my site drama-free.

“Adrian” posted on “Boon Has Tolerated this for Five Years“:
“Hey, I think this is really cool. I love the posts you make on dienerfft things you blame Lupus for. It is a funny side of blaming stray things on Lupus. Thanks for sharing.”

I assure you I made no humorous comment on lupus. What I want to know is, does this person spend their free time making this selfsame comment on random blogs? And if so…why? Do they themselves have lupus and are angry and bitter and are taking out their frustrations on the blogosphere? One can only speculate.

This one is priceless:
“But if you find yourself going off on long tangents about personal matters, it’s time to get back on track. You have to find the right balance, and with practice you’ll discover it. If you would think twice before saying something in a phone call or email to a customer, you should leave it out of your blog.

cheap jordans”
My blog IS tangents and personal matters. Move along. And thanks for the Jordans link. Do people still wear Jordans?

My favorite by far:
From “diablo 3 gold”:
“obviously like your web-site however you need to check the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling issues and I to find it very troublesome to inform the truth.”

Fuck you, pal. I mean seriously. Take your self-righteous ass to Reddit.

I don’t even know what the hell this means: (click to enlarge)


I’ve only been through about 500 of them thus far. I’m sure I’ll come across a few more gems as I make progress.

Voulez-voulez-vous buy Ambien online at huge discounts!

“It’s wildly irritating to have invented something as revolutionary as sarcasm, only to have it abused by amateurs.” – Christopher Moore

uterusI now have a plush uterus. My magnificent coworkers felt that a plush uterus would make a fantastic placeholder for the real thing. I find it makes a fantastic pillow. I have been given a wide variety of plush gifts during my convalescence. I have now amassed a teddy bear, an otter, a Curious George, a flying screaming monkey, and now, a uterus. Complete with bendable Fallopian tubes. The manufacturer of said uterus has an entire amalgamation of organs for you to select from. Even glands. Thyroid, pituitary, hypothalamus, take your pick. Not to scale, mind you. I cringe at the thought of the size of the being constructed of these organs. The intestines alone would be enough to warrant an abdominal cavity the size of a Buick.

In related news: today I receive a link from the givers of aforementioned uterus. The saga continues:

Awesomesauce link.

I am now plagued by the desire to pack my uterus with me when I leave the house and take advantage of photo-bombing opportunities. Group of duck-face blondes on a Friday night? BAM! Uterus. Group of Japanese tourists in front of Pike Place Market? UTERUS. Oh yeah. I’ll be more notorious than the Travelocity gnome. Or possibly have a warrant for my (or the uterus’) arrest.

All of this “missing uterus” business, coupled with my plethora of free (recovery) time, has unfortunately also given me time to contemplate…whatever has become of my sad, abandoned-in-the-night ovaries?

Yes. That’s right. They left my ovaries behind. Lost in a sea of intestines and bladder and kidneys and whatever the hell else happens to reside in there. The Beatles’ White Album could be shoved in between my liver and spleen for all I know. They meant well; in an attempt to prevent the horrors of premature menopause and the ensuing emotional fits and hot flashes and hormone ugliness which I do, in fact, appreciate. But I digress.

So, you’ve got these ovaries right? And for decades they’re attached to these Fallopian tubes and separated by space and time and this seemingly infinite and vast expanse of land beyond their comprehension. They would see each other, smile, wave a friendly “hello”. Perhaps once in a while, holler across the void:

– “Hey man! How’d your egg go?!”
– “Pretty good! You?”
– “Eh. I’ve had better.”
– “Sorry to hear, man. Hey, wanna grab a drink?”
– “Dude, can’t! I’ve got this Fallopian guy all over my ass!”
– “Oh, right. Well, maybe someday…”
– “Yeah. Well, talk later!”

And on it goes.

Until one day…

A deep rumble…
A piercing ray of light…
A screeching noise…

And before they can comprehend the situation, they are ripped from the only home they have ever known…they only anchor, their safe harbor…and left adrift…to flounder in an uncertain future, their only purpose in life stolen from them.

What now? What was to become of them? DEAR GOD WHERE DO THE EGGS GO?!

It was at this point I began to conjure up images of my wayward ovaries, succumbing to their search for their own kind, becoming lodged in front of my carotid artery, forcing me to squeegee them back down my neck…or one of them inadvertently getting lost in my digestive tract…ye gods. Self-cannibalism! The horror. I do hope they manage to stay put. I never thought to ask my doctor if she thumb-tacked them down or anything. Maybe gave them life preservers or, at the very least, water wings for their entrails. I now have these unfortunate images of them as star-crossed lovers, no longer separated by anatomy, ever searching for one another. Just trying to find the one being in the world who truly knows them. I have my very own anatomical soap opera. I kinda wish they’d sewn them together so I could feel more cozy about the whole thing. Ok, now I just imagined my ovaries as testicles. Ew. Nevermind.

Voulez-voulez-vous it ain’t ova til it’s ova… (I know. So bad. My apologies.)