Trying to use my artistic and/or literate abilities to get donations to the EFF and FSF (and ACLU, but the other two are more important).

First I tried odd vampire fiction but everyone collectively yawned.

So now I'm trying NUDE ART! W00t! Maybe people will find this nude art appealing enough to make contributions to EFF/FSF and ACLU.

Hopefully.

Please?

Hrm. Expatriation at Plastic. The United States sucks. Do we just leave it before it becomes a complete cesspool, or do we try to save it?

At least, in dreams, we can take certain really weird events in stride, eh?

What happens when you finally learn the truth about the George Bush Mood Ring? I hope, for the love of god, we learn it soon.

I tried to make the world a better place, but no-one cared. Maybe no-one likes this type of fiction? It seems a pretty reasonable request that you donate money to EFF, FSF, or ACLU after reading my story... Maybe it's unreasonable. :( Anyway, here's a passage from the book, which you can download in its entirety.

All these definite signs of youth are genius lies of nature. My body sheds age and scars and tattooes and sickness and disease. It sheds these things and leaves them behind. Every day, a little bit of youth sneaks up from deep inside me and hucks off a layer of aging. I do not look a day older than twenty-five. I certainly do not look like I've been living since America was a colony of England.

I have perpetual youth, but that is almost the extent of what I have. I have no long-term friends. I have no culture to associate with. I have no history. None of us have history. We can't keep books. We're always hiding from the humans among the humans, and books encumber us and give the humans too much information about us.

I know that we did keep books a long time ago, in dusty libraries kept deep inside caves, far from the human's grasp. But humans aren't simply afraid of everything unusual. They're afraid, yes, but they're resourceful, too. I have visions... visions of angry villagers carrying torches and pitchforks, storming into a vampire library through its narrow rocky entrance, stabbing me and leaving me for dead, tearing down shelves, and burning the books. These are real memories, but not mine. They belong to my mother.

So here I am. Bored on a Wednesday afternoon. I've just installed Debian-Woody on an Ultra1, and I guess I'm a bit excited. I've never installed anything on a Sun box before. Nor have I ever installed Debian before. Put the two together, and it was supposed to be an adventure, but it wasn't a big deal.

Now I'm running nmap against my machine and closing down ports, which is what any good database administrator would do to his Debian-Woody Sun box. I can't see how lpd gets started, but this is just the nature of the beast.

Why, oh why does PostgreSQL want to listen on all IP addresses? I have shut it down because I don't believe it's immune to attacks. I guess I should be less paranoid: this is, after all, a Sun box, not an Intel. Most script kiddies will find me all but impenetrable.

Anyhow.

My new website is at Faemalia dot Org where I have a nice little wiki up to amuse myself and friends.