The healing process

The other night, after eighteen months, I logged into my university account.

The poor dears have been holding it for me, as if in the vain hope that someday I may return to sort their fucking lives out again. In England's hour of greatest need....

Several thousand unread messages—maybe I'll deal with those another time—and my essays. Oh, my essays.

Some of you may recall the Systems Design Project. Some of you may recall the vomitous torrent of bile, hatred and vitriol that I handed in as my report. The phrases obsolete hardware, could not charitably be described as cutting-edge and dysfunctional group dynamic abound.

( Highlights behind the cut. It's a `best of pajh' retrospective spleen-o-rama, just for you )

The whole thing is here if you're interested. (See, I can `host files' on my `web space' now. I have the technology.) I remain quite impressed that I managed to write 6,127 words and not one of them was `fuck'.

I handed that in and had a nervous breakdown two days later. On reflection, I can't say I'm at all surprised.

~

Oh, and if anyone can tell me what I was going on about in this document, I'd be much obliged if they could tell me. This was the one in which I fixed all of the problems inherent in the current approach to genetic algorithms and suggested a way forward based on common sense and less frenetic mid-nineties grubbing for research money.

I was some kind of fucking genius two years ago. Now I have very little idea what any of those words mean.