Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Thursday, October 23, 2003  
Blasphemy!
"Kimmie" feels I have strained my wrist.

I bow to "Kimmie's" superior knowledge of these things.

After all, she is Satan.

She all but shrieked with delight when I showed her my newly swollen wrist. More torture to inflict! Yeah! OMG! (I am fairly certain "Kimmie" types in acronyms. I am fairly certain she is in on the plot to overthrow and officially murder the English language by regularly using acronyms for the even the most mundane, slang and rudimentary phrases. I'm guessing she's a big fan of emoticons, too. She is, after all, Satan.)

Last night she seized my newly injured wrist with delight and enthusiasm.

This morning I seized my pain medication with like minded delight and enthusiasm.

I have to give her credit, though, she did tell me exactly what to buy for my wrist, what do you know, this nifty little elastic glove (combined with prescription pain killers...I wonder if this is how Rush started...) is making it much easier to type. By the end of the day yesterday I was worried that I might have to stoop to acronyms and emoticons to abbreviate my keystrokes.

Lucky for all of us, thanks to the brace glove thing, the full spelling out of the English language is alive and well at Life of Trillian (apart from HWNMNBS and the occasional too long to type out every time moniker. Which I suppose is the initial reason behind acronyms...so maybe I am guilty. But I guarantee you will never read OMG on this blog.)

I was hesitant to wear the wrist brace/glove, because I was worried that:
a) The health insurance police would find out I have yet another injury and revoke my health insurance;
b) People would think I'm the victim of abuse and refer me to our employee assistance program;
c) I would have to admit to myself that I've hurt myself yet again.

But after replying to two emails, I decided, behind closed door, this brace glove thing is the way to go. Almost normal feeling.

And "Kimmie" said it's a good idea to wear one as prevention for carpal tunnel issues.

Which gave me my perfect lie: Oh no, I'm fine! Just a little preventive healthcare. Carpal tunnel, you know.

I am being slightly neurotic about this because I am calling enough attention to myself by limping around as if I just broke my ankle yesterday.

"Kimmie" is taking this therapy thing really seriously. And so am I. But she's got an advantage, she is allowed, in fact supposed, to bend and twist and otherwise torture me. She is paid to do this.

It started out well enough, "Kimmie" administered a neck and shoulder massage, which was painful, but that good kind of painful. It was not without it's other forms of pain, though, "oooh, so tight up here Trillian, you've got some mean ol' tension there. That's not helping that whiplash of yours. You've got to learn to relax if you want to get better." (in a baby voice)

Not only did I get the pleasure of "Kimmie's" special brand of torture last night, she brought in her apprentice. 23-year-old "Kimmie" has an apprentice.

I can't get an assistant, not even a temp, who can actually assist me in anything purposeful, and yet 23 year old "Kimmie" has an apprentice.

Beelzebub.

Beelzebub comes with accessories.

The sort of accessories found in all the Frankenstein movies. Accessories requiring electricity. And little round things attached to the "patient." And dials and gauges on the side. I swear on the Guide it had an amp meter. Perhaps several. Scarier still are the devices that await my future visits. When Beelzebub was rolling out the portable unit of terror from the back room, and I can't be certain of this, I only caught a stolen fleeting glance, but I think I saw a Tesla coil.

Beelzebub hooked me up to the machine. Oh, they're clever. They lay you out on a table, make you lie in contorted positions, strategically place you so you cannot see the instrument of electrical terror or what they're doing to you, then strap you down. "Kimmie" supervised the hooking up. Everything looked good to her.

She then began speaking in tongues. Or in a language known only to Beelzebub and herself. A language involving a lot of numbers and odd phrases, no verbs, and no punctuation. She told me I might feel a slight tingling sensation (really - she took that page out of my book. I warned you about irony.) Just before everything went black I think I heard her mention something about Weierstrass t-substitution, rather off-hand. A bit too off handedly for my taste. I don't remember much about half angles, but apparently Beelzebub understood loud and clear, because the next thing I remember was feeling a steel rod pressing into the outside of my ankle with increasing pressure. All from two very innocent-ish looking round circles attached with sticky tape to my ankle, tethered to the instrument of electrical terror by what appear to be transistor radio earphone cords.

I'm no wuss. Remember, very recently I was shoved down a flight of stairs, broke my ankle in two places, had a whiplash and concussion, AND SWUTTING TOOK THE TRAIN HOME, walked up four flights of stairs, back down again and took a cab to the hospital, where the real fun began - waiting four hours without so much as a glass of water, to learn I could have nothing for pain for 24 hours AND THEN HAD TO ENDURE THE SETTING OF THE ANKLE FRACTURE WITH NOT EVEN A BULLET TO BITE. 24 HOURS I HAD TO WAIT WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A CHILDREN'S CHEWABLE TYLENOL.

I'm no wuss.

But last night I cried from physical pain. Beelzebub and "Kimmie" made me cry.

There I was, lying there on the table, connected to the Electric Machine of Terror, leg strapped down...Beelzebub gave me one of those ding bells they have at hotel registration desks in all the best comedy sketches. I was to "ding" it if the pain was too intense.

I bit my lip. Bit my thumb. Tried (unsuccessfully) to visualize my happy place. Reasoned with myself it was all mind over matter. Prisoners of war in the Viet Cong endured bamboo under their fingernails and lived in miniscule cages for months, years even, by invoking mind over matter, I could certainly manage 15 minutes of a dinky little electrode hooked up to my ankle. I would not let "Kimmie" and Beelzebub get me. The bell loomed ominously in my field of vision. No. No. NO!

"Is everything okay over here?" Miss all sweetness and nice "Kimmie" asked me.

I think I heard a strange voice come out of her mouth saying, "It's alive! IT'S ALIVE!!!! IT'S ALIIIIVVE!!!

When I tried to answer, all that came out was a choked sob.

"It...it...it...h h h urrrrts!"

"Hmmm. Hurts how?"

"Like a steel rod being forcibly pressed into my ankle."

Apparently this is the first time "Kimmie's" heard this result. She seemed confused but also pleased. But wouldn't remove the hooked up electrode things.

"Would you like me to cut back on the stimuli?"

"Oh boy, would I?!" (TURN IT OFF!!! TURN IT OFF!!!! HAVE MERCY ON ME AND TURN IT OFF!!!)

"Okay, we'll decrease to the slightest amount for another 5 minutes. Beelzebub already decreased to almost the minimum. You've got to increase your endurance here Trillian, in order to get this ankle back in shape."

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For thou art with me;
(and for I have endurethed "Kimmie")
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. (and presseth into my broken ankle with an amount of pressure and pain the likes of which thou canest not imagine)
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; (an uncomfortable table with straps and in the middle of a socialized chamber of horrors)
Thou annointest my head with oil; (and my foot and ankle with some gooey slime gel stuff which smelleth really bad when joltedeth with electricity)
My cup runneth over. (let me tell you brother, in about an hour there's going to be a sacramental cup runnething over in my living room)

Apologies to NeoTheologue and Co.(rollest not thine eyes, it's an interesting blog) for any blasphemy. Pray for me. Please. I'm generally not a bad person. I'm generally not blasphemic. I'm generally respectful about religion and The Words. Thus is the extent to which I have been pushed by "Kimmie."

This was my second night of therapy, and the first time on the Electric Machine of Terror. And "Kimmie" was admonishing me to increase my endurance? What happened to establishing base lines, eh "Kimmie," if that is your real name?

And she and Beelzebub had the nerve to blow me what I think was attitude when they de-hooked me.

Again with the "we've got our work cut out for us here" remark.

And they left me whimpering on the table. I couldn't even reach over to get my Payless shoes. Between my neck, which was now throbbing, my leg, which I could not feel from the knee down apart from the phantom pain of the steel rod pressing into my ankle bone, and my newly injured wrist, I could literally not move in such a way as to retrieve my air cast, socks and shoes much less put them on.

This is the really embarrassing part.

I was reaching for my air cast, and...

I fell off the table.

Okay?

I fell.

Off the table.

Onto the floor.

And I just laid there.

For what I think was a really long time.

Until another therapist nearly tripped over me and asked me if I needed help.

"You know, yes. I think I could use some help."

She got me into a seated position on the floor and put on my air cast. And Payless shoes. (I have good shoes, I own good shoes! I don't usually wear Payless! Really! And so what if I do? You got a problem with Payless? Funny how even in pain and odd circumstances we worry about the impression we're making with our appearance. If blasphemy doesn't get me, vanity will. But I come by it genetically. My grandmother refused to go in an ambulance when she broke her hip until my grandfather fetched her the shade of lipstick she wanted for the event.)

Therapist II also noticed my wrist and said, "Wow, you really did a job on yourself! Ankle, wrist, back..."

"The wrist is new. I fell last night" (oh no. now she's going to think I have some weird neurological disorder which makes me fall and hurt myself)

"Let's take a look at that. Have you seen a doctor about this?"

"No, but 'Kimmie' thinks it's a strain."

"Can you bend it?"

"Yeah, see?" (nothing moves. not so much as a finger) "huh. well, I could move it before, back in the office."

"You better see a doctor about that. 'Kimmie's' right, probably just a strain, but it's quite swollen. And you can't bend it."

Assembled, sort of, I made my way to the water cooler, got a cup of water, somehow managed to get the industrial strength painkiller out of my purse, took one, and hobbled to the elevator.

The Socialized Chamber of Horrors is housed in a medical complex, as luck would have it, which is the same building as my doctors, including my orthopedic team. (as I now call them because I like how it sounds)

And remember what I said about irony? This is what happens when you are blasphemous. And/or vain.

When the elevator stopped for me, guess who was the only other person on the elevator.

My orthopedic doctor.

I nearly fell again, only this time with shock of the irony. (rather than shock of the instrument of electrical terror)

I pretended everything was great. At first. Said I just came from physical therapy. He gave me a sadistic knowing smile. Told me to hang in there, it will get easier. Then I said, "I hate to do this to you (panic on his face) but I fell last night and hurt my wrist. It's a bit swollen today (proffering my swollen wrist) should I make an appointment?"

"Let's have look." holds my hand and elbow, turns it in ways nature never intended (so this is where "Kimmie" picked up those moves) "Looks like a strain. Get a brace at the drug store, ice it and if it's not better in a few days give me a call."

"Thanks. I will. Get a brace. On my way home." (dammit "Kimmie" was right. dammit)

But I did as I was told, because I'm a good patient and a good girl, and miracle of miracles, there may be hope for my blasphemous soul yet because it's helping a lot.

9:44 AM

 
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