Tip 03: Instant Sling

So, you probably don’t know this if you live in a first-world country, but if you have a belt, you have a sling. Since men, women, and all the I-need-to-make-up-a-genders have at least one outfit with a belt, unless they’re in prison, everyone has a sling.
First, loop the belt, around your neck and arm, holding your arm bent straight as you do so. Next, fasten it about 10% tighter. On conventional belts, you may need to make a hole in it.
For elevation, loosely wrap socks or a small garment around the wrist and surrounds to prevent chafing or damage to circulation, then wrap the belt loosely around the wrist, set to the desired elevation and fasten. Please ensure your wrist and surrounds are well-cushioned and that nothing feels to tight (that it is interfering with circulation). Indicators are feelings of cold or numbness in the hand or pressure in the upper arm.

The belt method also _may_ work with rope, flex / electric cable, or any strong cord, but only temporarily as it’ll lack the support the belt offers and increase the likelihood of cutting off circulation. This is not so much a sling as a temporary stop-gap if you have a long way to get to a medical facility. It simply warrants mentioning for emergencies.

Back to slings…

If you don’t have a belt or don’t want to ruin a designer outfit in an emergency, that’s fine. You can use a pair of pants or a shirt and tie a knot in them (or secure with zip-ties), but it will _not_ be as good as a belt. The belt mimics a real-life sling used by doctors in third-world countries. The sling comes in long roll of cotton-covered foam tubing. The doctor cuts the approximated length from the roll, wraps it as needed and secures it with zip-ties.

Last resort: wide duct-tape. You may want to shave your arms and neck first, even if you’re a female. Both sexes have arm hair, it’s nothing to be ashamed of (just look at Alyssa Milano).
For a standard sling, we’re going to use the belt method, except we’re going to wrap it around a few times — gently, don’t mess with blood-circulation. Next, we’ll wind either end around the back of the neck & chin a few times before sticking them together below the chin (the last wrap must end beneath the chin on the _opposite_ side it came from). We use the chin to prevent asphyxiation or circulation damage. The chin is strong, stable, resilient, and doubles as a weapon if you’re an American man. This also mimics part of a helmet strap to try and prolong its lifespan.
For elevation, it’s a little more involved. We’re going to wrap from a fair distance below the wrist, right up to the fingers. To avoid wrapping the thumb (or to make avoiding it easier), start wrapping at the first set of knuckles and work your way down, as if you were bandaging your hand (this does actually work for splints). Now, same as before, wrap around the back of the neck and chin and join.

Of all options, the belt is the only one I recommend long-term (for already-stated reasons). However, consider that a real sling is less than a pack of smokes and the nurse at most pharmacies will put it on for you for free. Don’t be a cheapskate like me.

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Tip 02: ECM Optical Disc Images

Struggling to play an old favourite on Mednafen (or another emulator) because it’s in ECM format? No worries. It’s quite simple to fix. So let’s get down to it.

Firstly, .ecm files are _not_ disc images! That’s right, .ecm files are a special compressed format similar to 7z, rar, and the like, only _optimized_ for disc images in common ripping formats. Many softwares actually output a .ecm file when ripping.

So, how does that help you. Simple, you just install ECM. To do this on Debian and derivatives, update your package manager with your repos and install the “ecm” package:
apt-get update && apt-get install ecm -y

Which leaves you two ecm commands:
ecm-compress
ecm-uncompress
Which are pretty self explanatory.

All you do now is run “ecm-uncompress <name of file.ecm>” and you’ll have a working disc image. You can safely delete the compressed .ecm file now.

And that’s it, usually that simple. If clicking the .cue file still doesn’t work, check the file name is correct in the cuesheet (see next post).

Fiction: The Z-Word – Part 2

Last Episode (Part 01)

By the time we’d packed the truck, the first ex-human neighbour had appeared. Arsen was already inside the vehicle and waiting to leave, however I still had the gun safe to plunder.

Most people would have rationalized that a bullet or two to kill the neighbour was worth it for whatever was left in the gun safe, but most people lacked foresight: The noise from firing off one to a few rounds would definitely draw the attention of half the neighbourhood. That would put us both in danger. Despite the short trip from the truck to the gun safe, there were five neighbouring homes: three houses — left, right, and behind — directly adjacent to her house and two more diagonally. To reach the safe, I’d have to run across the lawn, into the house, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom after shooting Mrs Whats-her-name who was already picking up her pace. There was no guarantee I’d kill her, or even hit her at this distance, either, especially considering my inexperience with real-life firearms. “Then again, I may be able to lure her inside and lock her in a room to buy myself time,” I thought out aloud, mumbling indistinctly to myself while keeping close watch over the uninvited guest.

“Whatcha doing, Zee?! Shoot!” Arsen’s voice cried from the truck.

She’d made a loud noise! Now it wasn’t even worth contemplating, we had to flee. Immediately. I’d never stand a chance now that the “Z-words” from the neighbouring houses had been roused and were indubitably lurching, running, and crawling towards us. “It’s not worth the risk!” I yelled back, making a dash for the truck with Mrs Whats-her-name gaining on me with a sudden burst of speed, despite being a smoker in her late fifties.

“Zee, shoot!” Arsen cried, but I couldn’t. If I stopped, the old woman would catch up and then I’d have a few seconds to aim and hit her somewhere vital. I was a gamer and I’d been in a similar situation plenty of times: turning, aiming, and firing seldom had a happy ending. Besides, I wasn’t about to risk my life on a weapon I wasn’t adept with. In games, fleeing the opponent until the next area was often the most effective strategy, but it was no longer an option because the old woman seemed to be increasing her speed with each step.

I simply wouldn’t have time to get into the truck, start the engine, and pull off without Arsen’s neighbour catching up, and considering how my father had broken down my door, I was sure my now-gurgling pursuer would find the vehicle’s window no trouble at all.

The truck was growing closer. The driver’s seat door was open and waiting. Arsen was still hanging out the passenger door crying for me to shoot.

“Arsen, get ready!” I yelled as I held up the gun. Arsen not only knew how to use guns, but she was a reasonable shot thanks to her father taking her shooting fairly often when she was younger.

“Take it,” I said, throwing the gun onto Arsen’s lap, slamming her door, and running around the truck to the other side.

“What the fu–” she began, but I’d already made it around the truck to the driver’s side and rolled underneath the vehicle. The gun went off and the old woman’s unmoving corpse fell in front of me, a clean shot in the forehead. “Zee, what the fuck?!” Arsen yelled as I rolled out out on the opposite side to the corpse, rising to face the once-agaiopen passenger door.

“Sorry,” I replied, gathering up as much contrived sympathy as I could. “I know… No I don’t know how you must have felt picking that gun up after what happened with your parents, but that thing was getting closer and I don’t have experience with guns. You do. I needed to put some space between you and that thing so you could shoot it. I didn’t have time to think,” I cried.

“You can quit the act, Zee,” she replied, closing her door. “Besides, we don’t have time for this conversation,” she added, glancing at the house where two more ex-human neighbours were skulking about.

I rushed around back to the driver’s side, stepped over the dead woman, and climbed into the truck. Hurriedly, I started the engine and pulled out the driveway.

“Thanks Zee,” Arsen said as we turned into the street.

“For what?” I asked, genuinely perplexed after she’d seen straight through my act of contrition. “Aren’t you mad at me?”

“No,” she laughed. “You’re like the Spok to my Kirk. You did the logical thing and even though you manipulated me into shooting Mrs Harris — which was pretty shitty. But you made sure I’d be safe in that little equation of yours, even though it meant using yourself as bait.”

“It was all I could think of–” I began.

“To protect me,” she interrupted.

“To protect us both.”

“Nah, you were worried.”

“Of course I was, it’s Armageddon out there.”

“Yep. The Zombie Apocalypse and yet the first person you ran to was me.” She smiled and her eyes filled with tears. “I wanna kiss you, but that’d complicate things, so I’m just putting it out there. In case we die.”

Suddenly I was speechless. I looked at her and she simply smiled, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket.

From that moment on, the journey continued in silence.

Join the adventure! Insert yourself or a character you created. See Part 01 for more info.

Tip 01: Remove Sticky Lable Remnants

We can all agree that the worst thing that a lable can do, aside from upset minorities, is tear and leave some glue or paper behind. Instinctively, we try to scrub it off with warm water and soap. That’s actually the opposite of what you should do. There are actually three — yes, three — approaches hear based on the situation.

If it just left glue behind, you’re in luck because putty known as “tic tac” and “Prestik” will usually get it off. Patiently stick, wait, remove. Once a piece of putty is saturated, throw it away.

Tougher glue and pieces of paper require a more expensive approach: duct tape, also called “silver tape” in some regions despite the array of colours available. Cut or break off a few pieces of duct tape. Now, one piece at a time, apply them to the affected area. Give them a chance to adhere, then pull them off. Repeat and gradually the annoyance is removed.

Final solution. You’ll need a scraping tool like a metal ruler or buttering knife and possibly some liquid nitrogen, though the freezer usually works. Freeze the offending sticky matter and scape. Glue gets brittle when cold, thus causing it to come off with ease.

This post was originally written with sticky lable residue and putty in mind, but I figured I’d also share the rest. Generally, putty does the job with enough patience.

Well, that’s it for now. Good luck next time you face packaging from hell.

Tip 00: Prologue

I’ll be writing a series of tips. I won’t be using the term “life hack” because I hate it. I considered “protip” briefly, but then I thought, “To hell with it, I’m going old school. A spade is a spade, a tip is a tip.” Thus I’ll be sailing under this banner, dull as it seems. And in the spirit of balance and concurrency, my next post will be a tip.

Fiction: The Z-Word – Part 1

My name was Tod Wilson, but like just about everyone, I now go by my handle, Z33 (pronounced “Zee”). This is my personal account of the events spanning the most recent era in human history — and my life.

“This is the way the world ends. Not with bang, but a whimper.” — T.S. Eliot.

Everyone had their own ideas about the finer points regarding the infamous “Zombie Apocalypse”, but I think most, if not all, ran pretty congruent: that it was a plot device reserved for games and B-grade horror movies. The irony wasn’t just that it actually happened, but that it wasn’t a plague, a bio-weapon, an alien parasite, or a rage-infected monkey. It was judgement — of sorts, from someone, from somewhere, because of something. There was no nation-wide panic, no epic battles with the military, no cops firing desperately at unending hordes, no groups of mercenaries crying out “Fire!” in Russian accents, no presidential speeches, only plain and simple unforgiving judgement. It just happened: one day everything was normal, the next it was as if we were a few months into the nightmare. Nobody knows whose God was responsible. The Christian religions claimed it was End of Times and started preparing for a Rapture that they finally gave up on a year later, the Islamic religions said it was their Lord’s wrath upon a liberal and decadent society, the Scientologists said some distant bad guy had sent out waves and that this was the prelude to the final battle, even the Jewish people managed to dig up a few prophecies. Of course a year passed by as every religion became less and less vocal until they were back to telling people not to screw around or jerk off. At the end of the day, not even a scientist with the most expensive equipment money could buy was able to find a pathogen responsible for turning people, or even a genetic reason why those who survived did. The survivors didn’t have any specific race, gender, religion, or even fitness levels in common. It was almost like the whole thing was random, like some really sick joke, like some really bad piece of fiction.

14 February 2016

I woke to the sound of screaming. Glancing at my alarm clock, I saw “00:10” in glowing red on the liquid chrystal display. Assuming the noise was another domestic disturbance from our perpetually-drunk neighbours, I rolled over and put my earphones in.

I woke to the sound of more screaming. A blood-curdling howl so overwhelming that even my music couldn’t drown it out, followed by a maniacal laugh like something out of one of my anime. This time it wasn’t coming from the neighbours, this time it was coming from my house. In a mixture of shock and fear, I ripped my earphones out, stood up into my slippers, and grabbed the screwdriver from my computer desk — all in one fluid movement that would’ve made even an olympian gymnast envious. Cautiously, I approached my door — which I kept locked for the same obvious reason any healthy teenager did: to prevent my parents catching me in the act, especially while watching porn. Slowly, after peeking through the keyhole, I began unlocking it. Thud! It was as if a dead body had been hurled at the door. Suddenly there was a wild rattling of the handle followed by another blood-curdling scream. While most male 16-year-olds would’ve immediately rushed out to ensure the safety of their loved ones, I was not filled with hormone-induced bravado. My immediate concern was my own safety. I wasn’t brave, I wasn’t aggressive, and I definitely was not a hero. All I was, was rational. My lack of enthusiasm was not to say I didn’t love my family, simply that my logic told me I had no chance facing an enemy head-on if they’d been able to take down my dad.

Rattle, rattle, thud! The door handle kept turning and the door kept shaking. Whoever was on the other side was clearly relentless enough that it was only a matter of time before the door gave in. I was running out of time. I turned to my bed and began pulling and pushing it until it was flush against the door. Next I grabbed my schoolbag and emptied it onto the floor before packing it with a six-pack of cola, some Pringles, my backup hard drive, clothes, a roll of duct tape, and a blanket. After my bag was packed, I hurriedly slipped on my boots, all the while the sound of the lock and hinges of the door continued to moan as though ready to give way any moment. Finally, I rolled my curtain over my fist and began knocking all the glass out of one of my windows. “I’m not doing too bad,” I chuckled to myself as climbed out and my father burst through the door.

“Dad?” I asked cautiously, filled with a surreal sense of disbelief. He was covered in blood, and not all his own judging by the coagulating drip marks running from his mouth, down his neck, and under his T-shirt. “Dad, what the fuck?!”

He didn’t reply he just gurgled, growled, and pulled himself towards me.

Instinctively, I dropped from the window and ran, my will to survive overriding the myriad of questions and even my shock at the scene.

A few houses down, I stopped at my friend, Jamie’s house. The streets were filled with the echoes of that same blood-curdling howl, but luckily there was nobody in sight. Cautiously, I knocked on the door. There was no reply so I phoned her. Her mobile was either off or obliterated because it went straight to voicemail.

“Arsen!” I called, but no sound nor light emanated from her home. “Arsen! You alive?! Please, I think the shit hit the fan,” I called, suddenly realising how I’d just accepted everything, despite my best efforts not to.

I was just turning to leave when the front door opened and Arsen emerged, covered in blood.

“Oh, shit!” I cried, about to start running.

“Wait!” she called. bounding toward me as fast as her skinny legs would allow. Jamie, or Arsen as she was known, wasn’t skinny in the supermodel sense, but more in the half-starved-anemic-gamer sense. “Zee, I’m not a Zom–“

“Don’t say it!” I yelled, interrupting her as she flung her arms around me.

“What?” she asked, releasing me and staring at me with a puzzled look.

“The Z-word,” I replied, suddenly remembering how similar we sounded to a scene in Shaun of the Dead.

“You sound like Simon Pegg. I would laugh, but I’m too fucked up right now. I’m in that place past emotions, you know, like when you’re so sad or angry, you just… I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Zee, I just killed my parents!”

Without thinking, I threw my arms around her. She felt so delicate in that moment, so different from her usual self who was always talking big and showing off, trying to prove how tough she was. I’d always seen her as a girl, but I’d never seen her as feminine or vulnerable until that moment. The toughest person I knew was now clinging to me, desperate for something, and I didn’t even know what to say to her.

“So what now?” I asked, trying to remind her of our situation without being too course.

“I don’t know, Zee, I don’t have a fucking clue,” she replied.

“We can’t stay here, the neighbours will start coming for us,” I said, releasing myself from the embrace and gripping her by the shoulders. “Right now, your house is clear. But it won’t stay that way. I say we load your dad’s truck with essentials and get the hell out of here. You look for supplies — tins, jars, dried shit, you know, non-perishables — I’ll look for anything we can use as weapons.”

“There’s my dad’s .38–” she began, her demeanour becoming awkward.

“Is that what you used?” I asked, feigning sympathy. Not that I wasn’t genuinely sympathetic — she was my oldest and best friend — however, rationality told me that ascertaining the number of rounds left was priority.

“Yes,” she said, shivering with a deep inhalation. “I tried to warn them, but they kept coming.” Her face started to tremble and her eyes glistened in the street light.

“I’m sorry, let’s just leave it,” I replied, despite having every intention of sneaking it into my pocket as we made our final trip to the truck. “Just put it out your mind, I’ll get us somewhere safe,” I lied, giving her a quick hug and reassuring pat on the back.

“Thanks,” she said, swallowing hard and heading back inside the house. As she reached the front door, she turned and smiled at me. “My dad keeps a box of ammo in the gun safe, it’s already open.”

For a moment, I stared in silence.

“I know you Zee, you were gonna sneak the gun when I wasn’t looking. Thanks again,” she smiled, turning and disappearing into the house.

“For what?!” I called.

“For caring about my feelings. For lying about getting us somewhere safe. For stopping by here,” she called back.

“It was on my way,” I said as I stepped through the doorway into dark house.

After collecting the gun and bullets, I began searching for other weapons or useful objects. I grabbed kitchen knives, mop handles, gasoline containers, anything of pragmatic value. Meanwhile my mind was already racing, trying to put together something, anything, from an escape strategy to what was going on, all the while being vigilant, waiting for an affected neighbour to come rushing out looking for fresh flesh. There were still so many variables. So much had happened and this was just the start. In the end there were only three things that made sense: Firstly, to head for the shopping mall. I could get a blade there — a sword or even a machete — at the home security shop or the hardware shop in the case of the machete. Unlike guns, blades wouldn’t run out of bullets. There’d also be supplies there, and maybe even people. Secondly, we had to keep our eyes open for survivors. Logically, at this point anyone left alive was skilled at something that had kept them that way, making them useful. Thirdly, try to get ahold of the largest vehicle possible. Not only could a bigger vehicle hold more people and equipment, it would provide more protection. Finally, figure out what the hell was going on and the extent of how far it went on for…

Next Episode (Part 02)

Join the adventure! You can become an active part of the story via Twitter. All you need to do is follow me on Twitter https://twitter.com/nonzyro (@nonzyro) and message me your character’s specs. Base your character on yourself or make one up. You’ll be able to control your character’s actions in the story and even attempt to form relationships with other players. Your privacy is guaranteed unless you explicitly waive it. The following Ts & Cs apply:
*. You waive all rights to any submitted character and any part of this work or any derivative works of this work.
*. I reserve the right to change character names.
*. I reserve the right to remove or add character attributes.
*. Characters will be selected through a random process and added at my discretion.
*. Should you wish to remove your character, it is up to me when and how to remove said character.

PS: As a courtesy, not a requirement, please RT this tweet this tweet or any future Z-Word-related tweets. Also, please leave some feedback.

nonzyro and the Undramatic Return

I haven’t posted anything since 2016. A lot happened during my absence from the amateur blogging world. During that time, a lot has happened — both good and bad. I now find myself at a point where my entire existence seems to revolve around change: the changes I’m undergoing personally, professionally, and everything-else-lly. Ironically, I also find myself at point where I have just enough time to manage a blog again (albeit probably quite absently). And on the subject of this blog, I do plan quite an overhaul in the near future.

Chrome: Prevent the Gnome-Keyring Dialogue (Chrome and Chromium)

You have once again entered the Chrome world of survival horror… Good Luck…

It’s come to my attention that this is very poorly documented and many people are left wondering, “How do I get rid of that annoying dialogue when Chrome (or Chromium) starts?”

Do not despair, it’s actually quite simple. For the purpose of this exercise, I’ll refer to Chrome as Chromium, but they are essentially the same browser (the precise differences have to do with licencing and who exactly builds it). In a nutshell, you use the --password-store=basic argument. There’s a little more detail below.

If you’re using a launcher (that means an icon you click on), simply right-click it and select “edit” or the nearest equivalent. Now add the following to the end of the path --password-store=basic (yes, the space). Obviously if you’re launching it via the CLI, you’d type chromium --password-store=basic and problem solved.

You may want to make this change permanent, in which case (reasonably savvy users only) will edit the chromium execute script itself. Depending on your distro, it may be in an alternative location, but generally it is /usr/bin/chromium. This file is a plain old shell script so editing it is simple, and I’ll make it even simpler by saving you the hassle of finding what to edit. The variable you want is CHROMIUM_FLAGS and all you need to do is append --password-store=basic to it, after everything else in the script has modified the variable. So place the following line:
CHROMIUM_FLAGS="$CHROMIUM_FLAGS --password-store=basic"
above the last if-block, which reads so:
if [ $want_debug -eq 1 ] ; then
Protip: You can add any other arguments you wish to make permanent to CHROMIUM_FLAGS.
Notes: There’s always a danger with messing with a software’s launch script. Be careful what you add. Backing up the script is always recommended.
Whenever you update Chromium, it’ll overwrite your changes.
Don’t forget that you need to be root.

As usual, feel free to leave comments, ask questions, or post death threats using the comment button below. If you found this post useful, it’s good to share or like it, or even both.

A Day in the Life of a Transcriber — Part 01: Parts Shouldn’t Have Names

Being the second half — named “Part 01” in succession to “Part 00”. If you missed the introduction, here’s yet another link to it. If you’re too lazy to read, the long & short of it is this: I do transcriptions as my main income source at the moment and this blog is a good place to vent my frustrations by having a laugh at some people’s terrible communication skills. Please note, these are all native English speakers so they have no excuse for these abominations they call communication.

I never even knew nothing about it […]. Or I did, but I think it was like, pushed to the back of my head. Like, consciencesly [sic] I knew that […], but it wasn’t a thing that I took much notice about […]. I knew, but I didn’t know, if that makes sense, like.

Where do I start? Not at the beginning, that’s a little overused. We’ll start with a very interesting word — in the loosest sense of the word.

consciencely [sic]

I’m not too sure of the spelling, so I’ve typed it phonetically. I’m not too clear on the definition, but it would appear to imply a moral manner in which something occurs or is performed. Use cases may include performing surgery. One performs surgery “consciencely” when one does it carefully, considerately and not under the influence of substances. In this context, though, I think the word you’re looking for is “consciously” — to be aware in one’s conscious mind instead of only the subconscious. Now, note how we spell it. Yes, similarly, but without the N-sound. Minus twenty points for stupidity. Next:

I never even knew nothing about it

That roughly translates to, “I have never, not once, known nothing about it.” This can be further simplified to, “It’s always been been something I was knowledgeable about.” Minus fifty points because it’s such a well-documented, commonly-known mistake. I don’t not condone double-negatives if they’re used cleverly. Onwards:

Let’s look at the next part and the last part:

Or I did, but I think it was like, pushed to the back of my head.

I knew, but I didn’t know, if that makes sense, like.

Basically they both add up to exactly the same idiocy. We’re ignoring all other issues and just concentrating on the meanings. First off, you give the listener the choice of whether you know something because you used “Or”, which implies that they have the option of whether or not you knew. Since you’re the one doing the knowing, that’s something nobody else can decide. Secondly, you either do or don’t know something. You can’t know and not know something simultaneously, at least without entering the paradoxical land of Quantum Mechanics. Minus another fifty for stupid, but plus twenty for making me laugh. Seriously, that has to be in the top ten most idiot statements, yet I hear a surprising number of people spouting stuff like this. So, for the sake of anyone reading this who has ever said something along these lines, you either know something or you don’t (with the exception of quantitative contexts). Too confusing? Don’t worry, I’ve prepared a pocket-sized cheat-sheet below to illustrate exactly how it works:

adayinthelifeofatranscriberpart01_flowchart

You can print that (there’s a button below this post), cut it out and laminate it so you can carry it around as a reference card. That way, whenever you’re in doubt, just check the diagram to clarify.

That’s all for now, but here’s a preview of things to come: An internet avatar becomes aware she’s actually being controlled. Everything she says and does are the result of involuntary obsessive thoughts that manifest as ticks. The only time she can truly know her thoughts are her own is when the person controlling her sleeps. How will she break free? Who is controlling her? And what is the outside world that everyone call “reality” really about?

Well, that’s my little rant done. Any comments, shares, likes, hates, and even death threats are welcomed.

A Day in the Life of a Transcriber — Part 00: Prologue

I wanted my next post to be something meaningful. A poem, a short story, or even the first chapter of a blog-based novel. Alas, my muse fails me.

Transcription is my main income source at the moment. It’s a terrible job, despite what you may hear or think. There is no fun in listening to people barely capable of articulating themselves over the background noise of a shopping mall, a bus station, an eatery, or a busy household. There is no fun in trying to filter out screaming children, blaring televisions, and the ambient hum of other people, especially in a recording made with a smart-phone. There is even less fun in the verbal discourse itself which ranges from topics such as dental hygiene to the endless incumbent ramblings of elderly interviewees about arthritis, ingrown toenails, and chest problems.

Transcription seldom, if ever, involves interesting subject matter. There are no psychiatry sessions with the future Jack the Ripper, nor interviews with scientists and creators breaking new grounds. Just the repetitiveness of barely-audible and unforgivably dull conversation.

There are two perks to the job though. Firstly, it doesn’t require leaving home, fighting the the rush hour traffic and dealing with colleagues and customers you want to strangle. Secondly, you get to laugh every now and then because this job truly highlights just how poor the average human being’s communication skills are. I’m going to be sharing some excerpts of dialogue (modified where needed to protect the identities of the parties involved and so as not to violate my NDAs).

Since this post is already fairly lengthy, I’ve decided to split this post into two parts. Here’s a taste of what’s to come in the second half:

I never even knew nothing about it […]. Or I did, but I think it was like, pushed to the back of my head. Like, consciencesly [sic] I knew that […], but it wasn’t a thing that I took much notice about […]. I knew, but I didn’t know, if that makes sense, like.

You’ll be able to view my commentary on this excerpt along with many more wonderfail (I made that up, it’s a portmanteau of “wonderful” and “fail”) moments in “A Day in the Life of a Transcriber – Part 01: Parts Shouldn’t Have Names”.

Likes, shares, and positive comments sure are wanted and welcomed, but I’ll accept negative feedback too, like how cruel I am for mocking at the poor downtrodden anonymous idiots out there whose insufferable accents, bad speech patterns, and idiotic discourses I must endure to make ends meet while I’d rather be publishing games and books.