Swinging Nunchucks

It's been so long since I last wrote in my physical wire-bound journals that I no longer have any clue where they are, any of the six volumes I owned at last count. They are great to have around for inspiration during these times when I have so much trouble thinking of what to write about that I end up doing all of the other things that I've been doing lately, like adding a flood throttle to my IRC client, reading short stories, learning the Unix utility awk, and attempting to fly trans-oceanic flights in a simulator while hammered. A recent theme on some of the sites I like to visit every day seems to be discussion of the authors' private space and what it means to them. Since I am an enormously territorial man I naturally have a lot to add on the matter from my own personal angle. Having my own space is so important to me that we have things arranged here in this two-bedroom apartment that one whole bedroom has just my computer, my books, my old single bed that I use for nap time, and a great big map of the world on which I trace the legs of my around-the-world flight in pencil. This is generally considered to be "my room," though Ellen has been known to sneak in and draw pictures on the whiteboard in the margins around the logic I've scribbled for the latest programming problems I've worked on. I sit in my room every day and read, or code, or just lie on my bed thinking, getting stronger with each passing day while the rest of the world around me gets weaker and less threatening and stuff like that. I wouldn't hesitate to kill anybody who attempted to take my room in a spontaneous domestic coup, especially if they were to come through the window swinging nunchucks and engaging in senseless falsetto wailing.