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Like if Monet had a computer and no talent

Slaving away in the dank, humming graphics lab, I finally produced this, which you can try out if you have some form of Windows and a 24-bit .bmp file handy. Yes, it must be exactly 24 bits. Look, I didn’t write that part, OK? For those of you who fear “M$” or the prospect of what sort of spy ware I might install on your computer, it’s a painting program that does impressionist-y type things. I think it’s neat. I maintain that all bugs, small and large, are the product of the computer science staff’s errors in the skeleton code and not my excellent modifications.

During the same weekend, I produced this article for the Daily, which ran today in its usual spot. Once more, I failed to say anything of social importance. I did some other things this weekend, too, but they aren’t easily encoded into a format that you can upload onto a web server.

Lately I’ve been kind of worried about getting hit by a car. That I haven’t yet is due in at least as large a part to luck as to my vigilance in using crosswalks. This morning I scooted across 45th onto campus as the light was changing – I had a quiz in Shakespeare and couldn’t afford the forty seconds for the light to cycle through again – and very nearly got thrown over the windshield of a blue coup as I crossed the center line. A bunch of trucks that I dodged between on the near side of the road blocked my view of the opposite lane of traffic, which I stupidly assumed was clear. I stopped in my tracks inches away from the vehicle, which made no attempt to slow down. That scenario hasn’t happened too often over the years, as I’m usually much more careful about my jaywalking. What really worry me are the blind alleyways littering the U-District, from which cars shoot out without warning. Several times I’ve been walking on the sidewalk of some suburb, bopping along to my headphones, minding my own business, when a steel grill looms into my peripheral vision and screaming brakes butt into my music. The annoying thing is that the driver almost always honks at me or makes a rude gesture after sliding to a halt just before hitting my quivering form, as if it were my fault that they failed to approach the blind exit to the alley at less than twenty miles an hour, as if pedestrians don’t always have the right of way, even when they’re not paying close attention to their surroundings. Once, though, a man who almost hit me on Greek Row – I literally dove out of his way – looked so remorseful after slamming on the brakes that I felt bad in spite of myself. He held his head in his hands as if weeping, although he was likely just deeply frustrated. I wanted to tap on his window and tell him everything was going to be OK, but that would have been weird.

Posted in Musings.

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