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View:Website (http://smg.xto7.net/).
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Thursday, January 17th, 2002

(3 marks | leave your own)

Subject:i killed it.
Time:10:54 pm.
Mood: bored.
i killed my webpage.
i don't know why.

or. wait. i do know:

* i never updated it.
* i didn't have time.
* i was busy doing other things.
* i could never figure out what to do with it.
* it was somehow... lacking expandability.

but maybe mostly:

* i got tired of having to to learn php.

so. i moved along, started looking at xml/xsl
for another project, and got stuck there, doing

i'll figure something out.
do something new.
don't fear.
the next thing will be grand, i think.
as soon as i can figure some xsl-things out.
and maybe find some xml-parser for apache,
or find a decent place to host me, win2k .NET. :P

das ubergeek in me is proud.
been on an educative trek the last two days,
learing to program the .NET-framework with C#.

it's wonderful. really.


using System;
using System.Net;

class DnsResolve{

public void Main(string[] args){

a quick and dirty commandline-util to look up the hostname for a specified IP-address.

it's that easy, in the .NET-framework.
mahvellous. and today I built a server that waits for connections and listens on TCP-port 13, logging whatever traffic comes that way.




Tuesday, October 9th, 2001

(1 mark | leave your own)

Time:4:03 pm.
Mood:fuck off.
once again.
i disappeared from here.

i didn't know what to write.
so i stopped writing.
and i stopped coming here.

i don't belong here.
i'm not an angsty grrl in need of online acquaintances to buy me gifts. nor am i an angstridden boy willing to spend my money on previously mentioned category.

this place is too infested with the webcamteenygirlboppers and whatnot for me.


i'm out.
for good.

Monday, August 6th, 2001

(leave your own)

Subject:go on...
Time:8:25 pm.
Mood: annoyed.
give it a listen.
it's a first beta.
but what the fuck did you expect?


follow instructions, please.

Friday, July 20th, 2001

(leave your own)

Time:4:39 pm.
Mood: irritated.

new homepage.
the old one is being kept as a museum.
more or less.
i can't touch it.
eventhough i want to.

or ...
do i?

todays bonus peektor:

webcam is online agaihn.


and kick this:

function gtB(div,formname){
gt = [];
d = (ff.dl) ? document.eval(div).document.forms[formname] : document.forms[formname]
for (var i=0; i<d.elements.length;i++) { if (d.elements[i].checked) gt[gt.length] = d.elements[i].value; } return gt; }

Tuesday, July 10th, 2001

(leave your own)

Time:12:12 pm.
Mood: bitchy.
i can't do it.
i can't do it.
i can't do it.
(what, they ask)

update the website.
i can't even ftp to it anymore.
it's frozen. a freezed frame of reality.
and i can't tell everyone not to go there,
because they still will.


hijacked hair.
eaten by razorblade.
anna decided that my hair was growing too long,
and decided to shave me while in the tub.

on the other hand, i _am_ going to see Converter on friday, so the more fucked up the hair is, the better, aiight?

(a small life update, brought to you by the autonomous gnomes of switzerland...)

Monday, June 11th, 2001

(1 mark | leave your own)

Time:1:07 pm.
Mood: amused.
these guys rock my boat right now.

櫻井敦司・今井寿 from BUCK-TICK

or in inglese:




this album is niiiiiiiice.

Wednesday, June 6th, 2001

(leave your own)

Subject:do you know ...
Time:12:31 pm.
Mood: confused.
that word, for when you feel like
you've known someone for ages and
ages, but you've only just met?

the word, for when you know what
the other person is going to say,
before he/she has said it, no matter
if you have/had discussed that
particular matter before.

the word for the things that happen
on the inside, when a kind word comes
out of someones mouth.

the word for not wanting to go to work,
but wrap yourself around someone else
and just breathe.

help me. i need those words, i think.

i have a space invader tee.

Monday, May 14th, 2001

(leave your own)

Time:4:37 pm.
Mood: annoyed.
Read this.

America, you sicken me.
You sicken me in more ways than I can count.
You prey on the weak and reward the strong,
very Darwinian of you.
I can admire that.

But I can't admire that it's the _wrong_ 'strong'
who are rewared.
Neither can I condone your fascist tendencies to play SUPERCOP to the world.
You claim to be the NUMBER ONE DEMOCRACY in the world.
What a fucking joke.

The story above (zdnet.com) made me positively nauseous.
What gives your supreme court judges the power to transcend nation borders and nation laws?

"Hey, I know. I think it's pretty okay for these FEDERAL guys to ransack a house in, say... Mexico? Mexico is almost the USA. Oh. Oh. And Canada too. Why don't we let them ransack houses in every other country in the world, I mean. Everyone knows we're the GOOD GUYS, right? What's the harm?"

Stop playing police where you shouldn't. You have no right to make the world dance to your little flute. Stop trying to police the world, and focus your attention to _your own fucking problems_.

The USA today is not the same 'sink-or-swim'-america that it was in the 80s. You need to wake up and take _responsibility_ for your population.
America, you sicken me.
With your vast superfluous population. If each overweight american would donate 2 pounds
of his/her own flesh, you alone would stop world hunger.

The United States of America?
No. The Unified Shit of Americans, more likely.

Fuck off.

Monday, May 7th, 2001

(1 mark | leave your own)

Time:1:43 am.
Mood: irritated.
for some fucked up reason,
i can't get along with people these days.

if i were a girl, i'd blame pms.
i'm high-strung, tense,
and ready to snap at the slightest offense.

that is really, really cool.

we'll see just how many people i will manage
to lose this week.

bodycount = 1 so far.
with many, many, many more to go.


Friday, May 4th, 2001

(leave your own)

Time:1:49 pm.
Mood: gloomy.
I want to be overcome, but I can't, I am numb
I want to see what's become, close my eyes, bite my tongue
If you'll believe in me, I'll try not to die
If work keeps me living, it's got to start giving me life, not just strife
I'm so tired of living here, I'm so tired of living here
I want to run and be free, but I can't I'm so weak
I want to hold you again, in my arms my old friend
I have just one more chance to feel what is real
I can't keep on going, I feel my mind slowing...my heart is torn apart
I'm so tired of living here, I'm so tired of living here

gODHEAD - tired old man.

and. yes.
that's pretty, fucking, much how i feel.

Thursday, May 3rd, 2001

(4 marks | leave your own)

Time:5:09 pm.
Mood: annoyed.
... and to top it off, i can't find 'ohgr- welt' anywhere in this town.

this sucks.

Wednesday, May 2nd, 2001

(leave your own)

Time:6:29 pm.
Mood: bouncy.
in relation to this thread :

as we search for oblivion
we forget to remember
the faint memory of home
far beyond the wasteland

we drank the poisoned water
to hear the serpent speak
he told us of a garden
with the treasure that we seek

as we try to discover
the secret deep inside
there is nothing to be found
only dust in the wasteland

as we search for oblivion
we forget to remember
the faint memory of home
far beyond the wasteland

covenant - wasteland

i swear, i could fucking go gay just to get up on that stage
and do naughty things to eskil during that song (or theremin, or speed).

(leave your own)

Time:6:23 pm.
Mood: contemplative.
with all your weakness,
i grow strong.

Monday, April 30th, 2001

(4 marks | leave your own)

Time:7:15 pm.
Mood: cranky.
I'm bored.

everyone I know is busy doing something else.
as usual.

yay me.

today is some form of half-red holiday thing over here. which means everyone will be out consuming alcohol and wreaking havoc, and I've been awake for 36 hours now. I'm tired, and I'm bored.
And i'm really, really sick of this.

(1 mark | leave your own)

Time:2:42 pm.
i'm probably one of the best at one thing.
throwing rocks inside glass houses.
(i'm not even sure that's a valid metaphor in english.
but see if i care. mm. i dare you.)

i just


which is odd.
since i'm lousy at it.

oh well.

(1 mark | leave your own)

Time:12:50 am.
Mood: apathetic.
you are nothing

you are nothing

you are nothing

(repeat 'nothing' ad infinitum)

(leave your own)

Time:12:49 am.
Mood: melancholy.
if i prick your skin with a razor,
will you bleed? yes.
will you mind if I tear off your
flesh and feed it to the birds? no.
will you scream? yes. will I care? no.
will you let me cut off your head
and strip the skin off of it? yes.

'She had the most beautiful skull I've ever seen...'

I keep listening. The words make me drowsy.
The arrogance. The nerve. The electricity.
The sweet taste of them. They taste like sugar
and milk as the flow out of the mouth.
Is this what it tastes like? To pour out your
Milk and sugar?
Just add some frosted flakes and, shazam, breakfast.

i do not want this.

whatever it is.
i'm not certain.

at least i got a decent headshave this weekend.
and a total depeche mode overdose.

(text shamelessly stolen from my journal, but with some additions. raar.

Friday, April 27th, 2001

(5 marks | leave your own)

Time:1:30 pm.
i realized i needed this.
for some fucked up reason.


oh well.

i'm back.
with all that means.

Wednesday, October 11th, 2000

(leave your own)

Subject:i had it. then i lost it again.
Time:10:26 pm.
Mood:fucked up.

the thread.
i lost it.
i was probably going to write something about my complete lack of life lately,
but, really.
what's the use.

Wednesday, September 27th, 2000

(leave your own)

Subject:this is ...
Time:4:56 pm.
Mood: blah.
a fucking joke.

you know.



autumn is here.
not much else is.

as usual.

life. goes on.
or quasi-life, that is.
i did a rush and cleaned up the apartment the other day.
http://ingen.framtid.nu/pho/clean.asp - results are there.

fucked if i know.
right now life consists mostly of work.
parasite eve II. gameboy color. nintendo 8bit. and breath of fire 3.

i should get my butt off the wagon
and start doing some good coding again.
but about what.
for what.
what's the point?

LiveJournal for [n].

View:User Info.
View:Website (http://smg.xto7.net/).
You're looking at the latest 20 entries. Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 20 entries.