barely even March

(The macro goes on from there, but the rest is saved on my dead laptop.)

It's not March 5th and it's barely even March.

Tintorera writes:
"Nothing about Shatner's birthday? No Shatmoy? No Trek? Just Justin Bieber for about four weeks? Oh boy. This HAS become a nightmare. Mine."

Mine too.
I was giddily making Fresca's Birsdey Macro when our laptop battery died. We finally got a new one in the mail yesterday, but something about a "main table file error". I'm at the library. I'm in agony.

Not really. What's nightmarish is how nightmarish not having immediate access to every piece of media ever seems. I've been irritable and weepy - not an unusual amount, I don't think, just the natural amount. (Natural as in when you aren't diverted in 18 different directions.)

But at my first opportunity, this monologue from As You Like It is getting either Kirk/Spock-ed or Shatner-ed:

PHEBE: Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth; not very pretty;
But sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offense, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his year's he's tall.
His leg is but so so; and yet 'tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but, for my part,
I love him not nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black;
And, now I am rememb'red, scorned at me.
I marvel why I answered not again.
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?