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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or Search by State

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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

 
Wednesday, April 23, 2008  
Are nervous breakdowns like insanity? If you're cognitive enough to wonder if you're having one, you're not? Do they even still call them nervous breakdowns or is that an un-PC and outdated term? I hope not. I like the term nervous breakdown. Of course, this is coming from someone who is speculating about whether or not she's having one, so my opinion on phraseology might not be relevant.



I went swinging today.

Yep. Swinging. On a swing.


When I was a kid my grandparents lived for a few years in a little neighborhood with a cute little neighborhood park. My grandad used to walk me down the street to the park and I'd climb on the monkey bars and run screaming like a banshee down a hill I thought was equivalent to Mt. Everest and then I'd settle in for the real business of the park: Swinging. The swings in that park were phenomenal. They were placed, strategically, by a thrill seeking/psychotic park designer, on a plateau of a small valley in the park. So as you pushed the swing forward you would swing out over the slope of the valley. Ground would fall away below you and the feeling of flying was amplified exponentially because of that potentially sadistic but ever-so-thrilling placement. The swings were also extra tall, so it was rough to get momentum going. You really had to work your legs to get the swings off the ground, but boy when you did you really flew.

There were tales of brave/stupid kids who dared to jump off the swing and into the great blue yonder. My brother told me he heard about a kid who went into orbit and was being tracked by NASA. I was really little and didn't fully grasp the concept of orbit, or NASA for that matter, but it didn't seem out of the realm of possibility. If you saw the swings and their placement on the slope, you'd accept the plausibility, too.

I was generally fearless when it came to pumping swings to the maximum height and speed, and I'd made a few jumps myself on the swingset at home and on the school playground. So I was no stranger to feats of daring peril on a swing.

But.

Even I maintained a healthy respect for the swings in that park and clung tightly to the chains and didn't risk pushing the limits of physics. On lesser swings I loved to push the physics limits to the point the chain would go slack. I loved the feeling of dead air with the slack chain. Sometimes just before the chains went slack I'd twist my body so the swing chains would twist, a 180. This usually resulted in hair loss. But I kept the chains taught at all times on the swings in the park by my grandparents' house. The chains holding the seat were the good old fashioned sturdy kind, the kind with huge forged links with connecting centers big enough to trap and pinch little kid fingers and stray pigtail hairs. It wasn't a real day at the park if I didn't return home with two blistered and pinched hands, pigtails askew and missing strands of hair. And the chains had really good squeaks. Really, really good squeaks. They were, you know, real swings.

They don't make 'em like that any more. Health and safety standards. Liability insurance. Litigation. Kids are safer but, I dunno, I have difficulty warming up to anyone who's never blistered their hands raw from having a blast on a swing.

Right.

Nervous breakdown.

Here it comes.


My dad's in intensive care. Again. A ton of stuff is wrong with him. No definitive answers. Just a lot of tests and tubes and medications and specialists.

Intensive care is intense. They're strict about visitors and visiting hours.


So.


I took my parents' car for a drive. I didn't have a destination in mind. I just: Drove.

And eventually I realized I wasn't far from the park where a kid was launched into orbit via a swing.



Okay. I knew that area has fallen into decay. The once charming streets with nice houses and good neighbors are, well, you know. "Bad." I knew that. No surprise. It happened a long time ago. The area just turned bad. Quickly. So I haven't been in that area for a long time.


But there I was.


"Eh, whatever, I've been mugged, beaten, robbed, and ridiculed. So what if I add a stabbing or rape or abduction to the list?"


And with that I pulled into the overgrown parking lot and walked around the park.


The Mt. Everest hill was there, though I laughed out loud at how the small the hill is through adult eyes.

And there, oh glory of miracles, there were the swings.

Okay, not the swings, but, the original frame with a lone newer swing attached, was still perched on the precipice of the valley.

And you know what? The swing still looks huger than normal swings and the peril factor of swinging out over the slope is still very real. Someone, maybe a park employee who himself played on those swings as a kid, knows what they've got there, knows the importance of a really good swing, and has maintained at least one functioning swing.


So I spent 45 minutes getting blisters on my hands, getting hairs caught and pulled out by the chains of the swing and trying to figure out the required trajectory and jump point to launch myself into orbit.


I only stopped because a cop pulled up, got out of the squad car and came over to see what I was doing.


Swinging, duh, I was swinging.


Apparently he thought I was doped up on crack like the other adults who swing in the park in the middle of the afternoon.

He just walked around the park and cast that squinty eyed cop look at me now and then. No law against swinging in a park in the middle of the day. Ha ha, officer, you can't nail me for anything, go bust the crack dealer two blocks that way.


I didn't feel re-energized or enlightened or inspiried. For a few minutes there I was kind of happy about bringing back that feeling I had as a kid, higher, higher, higher, falling, falling, falling. Just me, the swing and physics. But that was pretty much the extent of it.

And that made me wonder about the nervous breakdown.


Aren't you supposed to "feel" something, something special or inspired, when, as an adult, you re-visit a childhood pleasure? Aren't you supposed to be reminded of the simple pleasures in life and emerge with a new, more positive outlook on life?

I mean, maybe I did and just didn't realize it. It seems like it was just fun for 45 minutes and then it was over and I had to go back to reality. A reality which sucks. Which, actually, pretty much sums up life. Childhood is fun for about 45 minutes and then you have to go to a sucky reality.


I know. That sounds more depressed than nervous breakdowny.



It's just, well, I dunno.


My dad died, twice, and is now looking at a very distorted reality from life as he's known it. Sure, he survived, twice, and that's all that matters. But watching him fight for life only to learn the life he fought so hard to save is not going to be the life he's going to have once his doctors say he can go home is rough. I think he'll adapt. People do adapt. But. This isn't what he fought so hard to save, his will to survive was not fueled by a passion for hospital beds in the living room, oxygen tanks on wheelie carts and dyslexia. Yes. My dad is now dyslexic. Sure, not the end of the world, loads of people are dyslexic. But. Would you want to fight to save your life only to find out you have to learn how to read again?


He's coping better than I am. I guess he truly is just happy to be alive. I guess that's all that matters.


Tell that to my mortgage company, the people collecting medical bills and my boss who keeps reminding me that my employment clock runs out on May 1 unless I "make up" a new job.


And that's where the nervous breakdown comes into play.


I just don't care anymore. (Isn't that an '80s Genesisollins song?) I haven't cared for a long time, but that fight for survival gene was keeping me going, making me deal with the ridiculousness of it all. Now, well, I don't care. I could very well lose everything in the next month. And I feel nothing. So what? I don't have much to lose. Whatever. I always hated parts of that job anyway. I was never in love with my condo. I'm so far in debt thanks to medical bills it'll be years before I get them paid off. So, you know, really, unemployment and homelessness are not such a big deal when weighed against the option of keeping a job working for a woman who harbors a lot of animosity and no respect for me or my abilities merely to collect a paycheck which barely keeps a roof over my head and pays medical bills. That ain't livin'. It's not even surviving.


I think in the moment I was hoping for some sort of epiphany on that swing. It didn't arrive. And that doesn't surprise me.


But what constitutes a nervous breakdown? Apathy? Disregard for providing employment and shelter for yourself? Not "feeling" anything other than the laws of physics when you play on a swing?

9:47 PM

 
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