Hey, Asshole!

I'm obsessed again. I'm searching Stuart on google. I'm trying to find information or a lead on who the new sucker -- I mean hooker -- I mean girlfriend -- is. It's pointless, and moot, I realize. It just makes me sad. A pic came up of him sitting at his Canzine table, and it just made me sad.

I make no claims to be over him. I'm not. What he did to me was devastating beyond belief. I still have trouble believing it -- and I go back and forth, days where it seems like just the memory of a bad dream. Other days when I would kick him in the balls if I saw him in person. Or at least call him an asshole to his face. "Hey, Asshole!"

It was really interesting -- I asked Mike why men go to hookers. Same generation as Stu. He put it really simply. It's like going to a Broadway show, and you're in it. That makes sense to me, actually, but that sounds like someone who has come to terms with their desire and their sexuality, and who understands the differences between these things. Mike doesn't seem like he has many hangups, though. Stuart, on the other hand, didn't want me to say the word "handjob." What else are you supposed to call it, asshole?

Very Meaningless Encounters

Been a busy week, so the blog's been dormant. My mom visited on the weekend. I forget what else happened before that. And then I hooked up with this guy. (Later, I found out that he is also this guy, but I didn't know that -- not the ad I responded to, and he was too embarrassed to admit that was him at first.... but it became apparent eventually...)

And he was a nice guy. Mike. Lovely time. I might see him again before he leaves town, I dunno. I'm actually not sure if he really enjoyed himself. I think he did, but I guess this is my own insecurity that inevitably comes up, especially after Stuart.

But also it reinforces my feeling that no encounter is meaningless. This was very instructive. Mike reminded me that all I really want is a nice boyfriend, not a nice hookup. (And Mike is not boyfriend material, that's for sure, even if he lived in my city.)

And of course I've been reading Stuart's blog, and getting annoyed. He's doing a reading in Cobourg, where the new hooker -- I mean, girlfriend -- lives.

I had more to say but I'm late for work, and now just annoyed and fixated on Stuart.

Evil thoughts

I got the following from Endgaget, and I thought -- this would be a really evil story to send to Stuart (from me), given our history (which entails my finding out about all his sexual activities by way of a keystroke logger):

Keyboard "eavesdropping" just got way easier, thanks to electromagnetic emanations

by Paul Miller, posted Oct 20th 2008 at 1:14PM

We always knew those electromagnetic emanations would amount to no good, and now here they go ruining any shred of privacy we once thought to possess. Some folks from the Security and Cryptography Lab at Switzerland's EPFL have managed to eavesdrop on the electromagnetic radiation shot off by shoddy wired keyboards with every keystroke. They've found four different ways to listen in, including one previously-published general vulnerability, on eleven keyboard models ranging from 2001 to 2008, with PS/2, USB and laptop keyboards all falling to at least one of the four attacks. The attack works through walls, as far as 65 feet away, and analyzes a wide swath of electromagnetic spectrum to get its results. With wireless keyboards already feeling the sting of hackers, it's probably fair to say that no one is safe, and that cave bunkers far, far away from civilization are pretty much our only hope now. Videos of the attacks are after the break.

[Thanks, Dave]

Compromising Electromagnetic Emanations of Keyboards Experiment 1/2 from Martin Vuagnoux on Vimeo.

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The weeping is mostly the result of my being haunted by my long memory. Letting go is difficult when you have a detailed and vivid memory. My ex has been hanging around lately, in my mind. Stuart. We broke up less than a year ago, but it was a long, difficult, protracted breakup over about two years. I still love him, of course, even after everything. Most women would have run screaming immediately, but I hung in, hoping things would change, asking for them to change. Finally, I decided they probably weren't going to, no matter how much I longed for it. I just wanted him to make me number one, for once. To come to me, and say: I was wrong. I want to make you number one, and try this again. He just couldn't say anything. Nothing.

I've been dreaming about him. My dreams are just like reality: he's moved on, and I am still pining for him, begging for him to come back, pathetic. In reality, it's the same, without the begging.