On the first programming assignment, I turned in a binary executable of my program, as requested. It was an OpenBSD/m68k binary. “Why?” you ask, because while your brain is occupied reading my journal, I can put all manner of words in your mouth.

Interestingly enough, the grader also asked “Why?” (marked in red), and gave a grade of 85 for a perfectly excellent assignment. More interestingly, I had emailed the selfsame grader two days before turning in the assignment and asked him which format he preferred — and got no response, so I went with what was convenient for me. Ha ha! I won't make that mistake again! Clearly, in cases such as this, etiquette dictates that one should go the “extra mile” and read his mind.

Anyway, in order to prove that I can be taught to some degree, I took my freshly completed assignment, due today, to the Windows NT lab in Olin, and tried to compile it there. You can imagine my surprise when the project, developed under Unix, didn't work right away under Windows. So I outdumbed it until it compiled and ran. Then I turned it in. Then I hurried to Baker to withdraw from ECES 337, only to discover that there is no refund available this late in the semester, so I did not, in fact, withdraw. Then I hurried home to pack for Philadelphia. Yahoo!

My friend Henry, who will be happy to see his name here because it means I am finally catching up on three weeks of journal entries, drove his friend's car, containing Henry, Ilana, two Justins, and me. We stopped to eat at a Wendy's in Penn Hills, but not before everyone turned into a shrieking neurotic arguing over which way Henry was going, which way he should have gone, and whose fault it was. Surprisingly, we did not suddenly stop being rowdy when we entered the restaurant. Henry went so far as to insert a long “multi-straw” (several straws fused together) into a vent on the ceiling. We also made our fair share of noise. I felt pangs of age when I realized that I thought we were going a little too far with the unmitigated joy at times. To compensate, I will now recite from what is, I am sure, the inscription on the Fountain of Youth: booger booger booger booger booger.

Later, we stopped at a Bob Evans, only to find it closed. So we ran around and tossed a disc to loosen up a bit after having been in the car for a while. Then we started trying to throw at various signs from across the street. When a minor errant throw landed just under her passing vehicle, some vehemently anti-frisbee ignoramus shouted an incoherent insult. Chaos ensued, in the sense that we ran the hell back to our car and got out of there.

Surely you will now understand when, in our haste, we got on the wrong expressway entrance. And surely you will understand when, low on gas, Henry thought it would be a reasonably good idea to try and back off the entrance ramp so we could get on the right one. And surely you will be incredulous when you hear that the police officer simply escorted us to the nearest gas station and told us to be careful out there.

Somehow we got to Ilana's house in Philadelphia. This proved to be of tremendous significance, because that was where we were going. Therefore, we did not have to go any further at that juncture.

There must be a way I can make today's journal entry even longer. If only I could think of how…!

Ah, hell. Nobody likes self-referential humor.