The "I want to be a better Absolutwriter" Thread
- Thread starter James81
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... by being polite and considerate of others.
Most everyone is, though, so I guess I'm not adding anything new, here, or humorous :-(
Most everyone is, though, so I guess I'm not adding anything new, here, or humorous :-(
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That is what AW friends are for.
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Stop baiting the mods with my accusations of oppression.
Other than that, I don't know. I'll let my many, many detractors point out my flaws.
*glares at detractors and waves fist*
I know you're out there!
Other than that, I don't know. I'll let my many, many detractors point out my flaws.
*glares at detractors and waves fist*
I know you're out there!
Albert, the Most Perfect AbsoluteWriter
He chose his current favorite number 2 pencil from among its seventeen pre-sharpened siblings that rested, tip-up, in the dented refried beans can that served as his pencil cup. He took a nip from the eraser and spit it at the lucky Wellington rain boot opposite the computer desk. It rimmed the boot and fell to the floor, bringing his cat, Erasmus, to life on his lap. He tossed the pencil on the desk and selected this next favorite pencil and repeated the nip-and-spit, this time bouncing the rubber shard off the wall and into the opening of the Wellington. Erasmus leaped form his lap, leaving two stinging launch pads on his thigh.
Adequately in pain, he reached for his MP3 and selected a random shuffle of Pink Floyd. He had time to let the labtop boot up before the almost silent prologue of the first tune ran through to the proper volume in his ear buds. He tested the coffee in his chipped-and-stained decanter-sized coffee mug and with a nod, inhaled with a slurping tongue roll.
His first current favorite pencil sat crooked, partly overhaning the desk edge, so he nudged it over the cliff. No way he could betray the wayward lead with it staring at him. It's carbon wouldn't touch the notepad, wouldn't loop into the beginnings and endings of each sentence, wouldn't keep the formality of his most favored and anachronistic composition routine. The pencil would not play the handwritten prelude to the symphonic tapping of the sentences into digital forever.
His computer beeped a message, simultaneously nudging his e-mail program to the screen. He let out a gasp. A PM from Absolute Write. He didn't read any farther--he liked to be surprised about the authors of PMs. But he hesitated. This was his writing time. No distractions. No web-based musings. No Water Cooler.
He aimed his mouse over the Word Processor icon and double clicked. Just one more chapter and he'd have the necessary set-up for the grand resolution. This one would have the emotion, the circularity, and the tone to curl the toes or more than a few readers. He pushed the arrow to open, but the mouse swung to the right, like it was controlled by some Ouija force. Before he could let go, it clicked the minimize-minus and zipped over to the AW favorites entry. The click shook the desk, rocking the refried beans can so it circled in a tilt-and-whirl, will-it-tip-over epliptical orbit. His coffee sloshed on his free hand, and his withdrawal jerk make up the can's mind, raining sharp pencils down on Erasmus.
The Cooler flashed the screen like a drunk coed on spring break, and the nipples of Office Party called to him. Forget the PM. Come to me first. I am your gateway to the writing life. I am your muse, your mentor. I will help you finish your novel. All you have to do it answer that poll, wish a happy birthday, and check to see how everyone responded to your witty answers from three this morning. Come to me. Now.
He chose his current favorite number 2 pencil from among its seventeen pre-sharpened siblings that rested, tip-up, in the dented refried beans can that served as his pencil cup. He took a nip from the eraser and spit it at the lucky Wellington rain boot opposite the computer desk. It rimmed the boot and fell to the floor, bringing his cat, Erasmus, to life on his lap. He tossed the pencil on the desk and selected this next favorite pencil and repeated the nip-and-spit, this time bouncing the rubber shard off the wall and into the opening of the Wellington. Erasmus leaped form his lap, leaving two stinging launch pads on his thigh.
Adequately in pain, he reached for his MP3 and selected a random shuffle of Pink Floyd. He had time to let the labtop boot up before the almost silent prologue of the first tune ran through to the proper volume in his ear buds. He tested the coffee in his chipped-and-stained decanter-sized coffee mug and with a nod, inhaled with a slurping tongue roll.
His first current favorite pencil sat crooked, partly overhaning the desk edge, so he nudged it over the cliff. No way he could betray the wayward lead with it staring at him. It's carbon wouldn't touch the notepad, wouldn't loop into the beginnings and endings of each sentence, wouldn't keep the formality of his most favored and anachronistic composition routine. The pencil would not play the handwritten prelude to the symphonic tapping of the sentences into digital forever.
His computer beeped a message, simultaneously nudging his e-mail program to the screen. He let out a gasp. A PM from Absolute Write. He didn't read any farther--he liked to be surprised about the authors of PMs. But he hesitated. This was his writing time. No distractions. No web-based musings. No Water Cooler.
He aimed his mouse over the Word Processor icon and double clicked. Just one more chapter and he'd have the necessary set-up for the grand resolution. This one would have the emotion, the circularity, and the tone to curl the toes or more than a few readers. He pushed the arrow to open, but the mouse swung to the right, like it was controlled by some Ouija force. Before he could let go, it clicked the minimize-minus and zipped over to the AW favorites entry. The click shook the desk, rocking the refried beans can so it circled in a tilt-and-whirl, will-it-tip-over epliptical orbit. His coffee sloshed on his free hand, and his withdrawal jerk make up the can's mind, raining sharp pencils down on Erasmus.
The Cooler flashed the screen like a drunk coed on spring break, and the nipples of Office Party called to him. Forget the PM. Come to me first. I am your gateway to the writing life. I am your muse, your mentor. I will help you finish your novel. All you have to do it answer that poll, wish a happy birthday, and check to see how everyone responded to your witty answers from three this morning. Come to me. Now.
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But then he decided "screw it" and turned on the TV and found an episode of CSI: Paramus he'd only seen five times THE END.
If the draw of the Cooler is the flashing breasts, the allure of Office Party would indeed be the nipples.
And, if you want to get technical, two of my labtops have little blue mouse-function nipples (the official name as far as I know) in the center of the keyboard.
If they are blue, you're doing it wrong
I can promise extra turnips for the deserving. Exploding turnips for really deserving cases.
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Blue nipples and chocolate pants - all a newbie needs to know about Office Party....
ETA - isn't there a drink called a blue nipple?
ETA - isn't there a drink called a blue nipple?
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By definition, nipples are terminal (in a proximal-distal sense). And as figurative electrodes, they can send a quick a jolt through the minds of most men, un-bending intent or forcing a concentration on baseball.