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


It’s a family affair…

I am now getting messages from Ben’s family members.

“I can’t believe you would make fun of my brother Benjamin without letting me in on the fun. Send me your email and I’ll send you my Benjameme submissions.” – Ben’s brother

Apparently this is becoming somewhat of a Facebook/internet sensation. Thanks, Kyla, for being such an amazing catalyst.

So, in no particular order:


I have to see Ben five days a week and now, when I see him, All I will see is this. O_o


“Here we are folks! The dream we all dream of…”


“U musta took (u musta took) a whole hour just 2 make up your face, baby!”


” Courage! What makes a king out of a slave? Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage!”




“Young man! There’s no need to feel down…
I said young man! Pick yourself off the ground…
I said young man!! ‘Cause your in a new town
There’s no need to be un-happy…”


“Shimmy shimmy ya!”


– “What are you gonna do today, Napoleon?”
– “Whatever I feel like I wanna do. Gosh!”


‘I am as innocent regarding any conspiracy as any of you gentlemen in the room!!”


“Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”