What in the hell are Skwinkles?!
Atlanta Bonded Warehouse is a cross between a walk-in freezer, a public library, and an international airport.
I had forgotten that when I get up early to do something important, I get caffeine jitters. I don't actually drink coffee; I just get this giddy adrenaline rush that makes me talk real fast and slur my words while my hands are vibrating like I'm Lewis Black. But I got there on time.
Almost didn't, because driving around and around the sprawling place I couldn't find the prescribed entrance.
First impressions:
Not as cold as I expected. Everything is white. Very clean. Quiet. Howling in distance. The ceiling is very, very, high. Why is there no chocolate smell?
Skipping the lengthly orientation where I figured out what the hell was going on, my job broke down like this:
Sometime next week a group of VIPs from M&M-Mars are coming by for an inspection. Everything must be PERFECT. The temp agency- Royal Staffing- is apparently responsible for running an entire department of around forty people at ABW called 'co-pack'. I do not know what they do there, as in the past two days I've never been there when they do it. But it seems to involve packing. Except that everything is already packed when it gets there. Anyway, ABW asked RS to hire some extra hands to clean for the inspection. There are four of us, and we wait in the break room while the co-pack people get to work. The Manager in charge (a woman) puts us under a middle-aged lady who is to herd the cleaners around. We get a two-cent tour. There are many, many boxes. For a warehouse, the place is incredibly clean. We spend eight hours bleaching the walls, wiping down garbage cans, sweeping out the loading wells, and spit-shining other highly visible surfaces. Then I come back next day, we have twice as many cleaning people, we do the same thing. Now I am tired.
Impressions from the two-cent tour:
Co-pack is tucked into one corner of the warehouse; as we walk away from it the first thing she tells us is, "Watch out for the forklifts. They're not used to you being out here on the floor- they're used to looking for the tops of other forklifts, and they'll just come flying around the corner without looking." As she says this a mutant forklift zooms by at thirty-five miles per hour.
'Humungus' cannot describe the building. The warehouse is made of 'rooms' each around fifty-thousand square feet, or one small Wal-Mart. (half a Super Wal-Mart) Some are bigger. There are about ten rooms total.
The rooms are filled with pallet racks, mostly full. To those who don't know, pallet racks are like huge steel skeletons of bookshelves, and pallets are flat wooden boxes that anything you want a forklift to grab must be stacked on. The forklift skewers the pallet, and lifts it and the load together. These particular pallet racks are around thirty feet high; imagine being a foot high, walking through the stacks of a library. Many, many, many boxes.
More mutant forklifts continuously go by from and in all directions, as we get to the central room, number four. There is a big counter in the center of the wall along the main corridor. The counter is covered with computers and men stand there typing and radioing and frowning at pieces of paper. This command center is surrounded by four-foot high bright yellow reinforced concrete posts, spaced about a meter and a half apart. On the other side of the corridor I immediately recognize a time machine about to depart.
Of course it's not a time machine, but it takes me a moment to guess what it is. There is this black gallows-shaped (and sized) frame rising two and a half meters from a block of machinery, and from the frame hangs an L-shaped boom that is spooned by the frame and reaches back down to the floor. There is more machinery on the boom. The boom is whirling around in a circle every other second, and on the floor in the center of the the boom's circle of revolution is a pallet loaded with boxes. It looks like something from
Stargate or
Timeline or
Minority Report or any one of the movies and/or television series which involved time-traveling law enforcement.
I realize that it is a pallet-wrapper.
Pallet wrapping usually involves a worker holding a two-liter bottle sized roll of Saran-Wrap and walking around a pallet twenty times. The wrapping ensures that none of the boxes get loose, and it works much better than straps. The boom on the time machine in fact holds a giant roll of plastic which it adjusts the height of to completely cover the pallet; in a few seconds the pallet looks like an unfortunate fly. Afterward, the time machine is in my eye an immobilized spider.
The lady points out the cold rooms- now I realize some of the building is, in fact, kept at forty degrees. We approach a barn door-size opening covered over with a curtain of heavy strips of transparent plastic. We're keeping near the racks to avoid the traffic; suddenly the curtain snaps open like bat's wings and a mutant forklift shoots out; in a second the curtain snaps shut again. I feel a wave of cool air. I think of the batcave exit.
You know all those times you've stuck your head in the freezer on a hot day, wishing you could climb inside? Of course, anyone who has used a meat locker has experienced this, but it's fun when the freezer is the size of a department store. All the doors are transparent plastic; they all have impressive ways of snapping open as soon as something approaches.
Impressions on the work:
Many people manage to get very far into life unexposed to continuous physical labor; when they run up against it for the first time, they're overwhelmed by it and totally unable to cope. I'm out of practice- and out of shape- but luckily I had that lesson years ago, working for my dad. With physical labor, the more repetitive and mindless, the better. Nothing beats carrying heavy loads from point A to point B. Because to the extent that your thoughts don't have to address what you're doing, they can be about anything you want. My first job, which I got when I was a senior in high school, was shelving books in the children's department at the central branch of the
Cobb County Public Library. It was brain-liquefying. Because to see where the books went, you had to be constantly alphabetizing them in your head. You were forced to concentrate entirely on the work to do it; yet it was mind-numbingly boring. And the books themselves didn't help either; children's stories have such great hooks, and I very often had to stop myself from reading them then and there.
*Ahem*. I was talking about the warehouse: The work was comfortably monotonous. I got into the wax-on, wax-off motions and listened to the background noises of the warehouse. Depending on the hybrid, when a mutant forklift was approaching its electric howl sounded like an airliner taking off, and when retreating it sounded like an ambulance. At intervals the PA would squawk something unintelligible.
The mutant forklifts did one of two things: zoom up to a shelf or pallet strewn floor, pause, snatch a pallet, and zoom off again or zoom up to a shelf or pallet strewn floor, pause, drop a pallet, and zoom off again. The constant motion and lack of apparent direction gave one the impression that the warehouse didn't actually ship pallets; it just shuffled them to look busy. Like an ant hill twiddling its fingers.
Something which you (By which I mean "I") kept forgetting was that the place was a Mecca of candy. There was no smell of chocolate at all; they kept the place very clean. But you could see the product variety logos and read the content information printed on the boxes. So let's say you look at one box on a pallet and it has the "Crispy M&M's Chocolate Candies" logo. There are one hundred bags in that box. There are one hundred boxes on that pallet. A large rack holds about one hundred pallets. If a bag of crispy M&M's holds one hundred candies, that's ONE HUNDRED MILLION CRISPY M&M'S CHOCOLATE CANDIES
on just one rack. I don't even really like crispy M&M's. I like peanut M&M's much better. And the next shelf is Three Musketeers. I hate Three Musketeers. That rack holds FIFTEEN HUNDRED THOUSAND THREE MUSKETEERS CANDY BARS. But the next one holds almond M&M's, so I'm happy. Not everything there was M&M-Mars; I saw pallets with Pedigree Dry Dog Food and Uncle Ben's Brown Rice. (ONE BILLION RICE GRAINS!)
I was back in a 'room' seemingly devoted to M&M-Mars, spit-shining the rack ends, when I came across a few pallets loaded with brightly-dyed boxes bearing a logo for "
Skwinkles". There was some adspeak on the box to the effect of "They're sooooo yummy!!!". I started having flashbacks to
Johnny the Homicidal Maniac background jokes. Taco Hell. Cherry Brain Freezies.
What in the hell are Skwinkles?!?!?! They sound like
Skittles laced with
Ecstasy.
I know this is the internet and the answer to my quandary is mere minutes away, but I don't want to subject myself to this horror. Feel free to Google it if you're feeling masochistic.
We only worked in the cold rooms once, at the end of today. I was hot enough from working that I never got cold, but I got very, very stiff and I couldn't feel my ears. Dead-tired and hobbling around in the endless freezer, looking for another garbage can to wipe down, I actually got lost and circled around to where I had started from without realizing it. I started to get paranoid as I came upon garbage cans that looked like they'd already been cleaned; I completely freaked out when I found myself looking through the door I'd come through, from the opposite side. Luckily, it was time to go home.
I have to rest. Goodbye now.
I'll keep an eye out for Oompa-Loompas
So about that interview I mentioned going to last Friday: it paid off. I am now an official employee of
Royal Staffing Services, a temp agency. What's more, when I called today to get the verdict, the nice lady called me back immediately afterward and offered me an assignment. Five days full-time, at nine dollars an hour. Very good pay for unskilled labor. I'll be cleaning out a place called "Atlanta Bonded Warehouse", which apparently is a distribution center for M&M-Mars. The nice lady said to bring a coat as the warehouse is climate controlled to keep the chocolate from melting; indoor temperatures may reach forty degrees Fahrenheit.
Small obstacle before me: in my current state of unemployment, I've been allowing myself to get out of bed at ten hundred hours, eastern standard time. This assignment requires that I show up at seven hundred hours, eastern standard time. So I'm going to be a little groggy tomorrow. Furthermore, I'll need to get to bed momentarily.
On the job front, I now must decide whether to keep applying at other places or rely on Royal Staffing to come through. If it keeps coming through like *this* I'll be -too- busy; sometime in the immediate future I have to repair
The Accursed Schoolhouse's leaking roof. For once I'm glad of my construction background; my dad's advice will be invaluable on this, even if getting it will entail listening to several rants on unrelated topics.
I've determined however that working until next summer will be a misuse of time since it will take me over a year to build any sort of job history; and I intend my future pay to be based on a college degree, anyway. So as soon as possible I have to look into attending a community college this spring, so that I can achieve the grade point average necessary to make use of a wonderful thing that we have here in Georgia called the HOPE scholarship.
The glitchy HTML on this blog is driving me nuts; the new template isn't half ready yet, though.
I really must go to bed now. To anyone out there: sleep tight, wake rested.
Miss Piggy, Athletic Trainer
It's the middle of the day, and I should be out looking for a job right now. But I never learned to write when I have time; I have to do it when I feel like it. That's why it takes me so long to write these blessed posts. But this time I sat down ready, so this shall be the incredible thirty-minute post.
I am living with my mother. My mother is afflicted with something like fourteen incurable debilitating non-fatal illnesses, and has been since I was ten. She and my father divorced when I was about nine; she got sick shortly thereafter and I've been bouncing between the two ever since. It's sickeningly shameful to me that I'm still doing this when I'll be twenty-two in nine days. But I've yet to learn anything like self-sufficiency.
My mom's life is difficult to describe without the details; she spent two years in bed at one time. For the past five years she has been slowly improving. She still isn't financially independent either, though. Her plan, when she divorced, was to build a group home for children. I'm in that same accursed building now. I have to give it to Mother: in every thing she's done in her life, she's had bad luck, misinformation, no help, regular abuse, and been taken by anyone who so much as sold her produce. She is the poster girl for American victimhood. She built the school, against all odds, got sick, and then had to shut it down. She didn't lose it when she couldn't pay the mortgage; she rented half the building out and lived one room. The building- it's a house actually- she chose to put it in is a driftwood shanty. It's a piece of shit in every way. But it was cheap, as it had just been foreclosed, and the previous owner had done his best to devalue it on the way out, using his boots and a hammer. Hereafter it will be referred to as
The Accursed Schoolhouse.
My mother will remind me of all of this at least once a day. The positive parts, anyway. But more about her later.
There's a dog who lives on this property named Miss Piggy. We just call her Piggy, though. Yes, she is in fact named after the muppet; that, and she bears a striking resemblance to a pig. She is a Chow Chow-Golden Retriever mix; this gives her a stout frame, a short snout, triangular ears, and a curly tail. She also makes grunting noises when she's excited. She's not very big underneath it, but she has a lot of chestnut fur that makes her look chubby. She has the absolute mildest disposition I have ever seen in any dog, and I've seen a lot. The downside is that she doesn't play; she loves attention, she loves new people, she loves other animals- but she will not chase anything you throw unless it's made of liver. But she has NO bad habits. She's never had even ONE. And we've had her since birth. She was born housebroken.
My mother always feels it is necessary to state that Piggy is *my* dog, and not *our*dog. This creates a lot of stupid petty fights between the two of us, where I display the maturity of a seven-year-old by failing to take care of the dog just to spite my mother. Mom originally got Piggy for me; but she has lived with my mother for eight years, during all the time I was with my dad. This is primarily because The Accursed Schoolhouse has an acre fenced-in yard. Piggy undoubtedly believes that my mother is her owner.
Not that a dog with an acre yard is in desperate need of walking; but my mother honest-to-god has trouble walking more than two-hundred meters in one go, so Piggy's never been walked with anything approaching regularity. Can you see where this is going?
I spent the summer living with my father. Sometime in early August, while I was there, the shift happened that led to me starting a blog. I decided shortly thereafter that I was going to try and get fit again. What utterly unsettled me at the time was that when I told myself this, I believed me; which was, to say the least, weird. One of the first things I tried was driving to a local public track and walking two miles; I did this every day for two weeks. Then I got caught up in helping mother, ended up moving in, and couldn't manage to drive that far.
Another reason mother doesn't walk the dog is that The Accursed Schoolhouse is on a four-lane highway. The road we're cornered on is only a hundred meters long and dead-ends into a creek. So in order to walk anywhere, you have to either cross the highway or walk along it a ways. She's always been afraid that if she did this with Piggy, and then Piggy got out of the yard, she'd run right into the street to get to her usual stomping grounds. I've always thought this was overcautious because Piggy doesn't even *try* to get out of the yard.
So, to get to the point, I started taking the dog on long walks. Across the highway. God help me (and the dog) if mother was right. I've been doing it for a month, virtually every day, and the amazing thing about it is that Piggy is actually starting to pay some attention to me because of it, instead of ignoring me all the time.
As far as exercise, walking the dog is actually not very good because dogs need to sniff everything. That's why they're on the walk, for goodness sake. If they just wanted to walk, they could run in circles in the yard. So the constant stopping meant I wasn't actually getting anywhere near the intensity I needed. Until the day before yesterday, when, like a bolt of lightening, it occurred to me that I could just march in place when Piggy stood still. Which I did. And so I broke a sweat.
So now I have a very limited, but structured exercise program. For further reference, according to an old and not-very-trustworthy scale, I weight two-hundred-fifty pounds. I know enough about health to know how bad a measure of fitness that is, though, so I offer you my own highly suspect self-measured waist size: forty-seven inches. This bothers me because I'm wearing size forty-four pants. Oh well.
Anyway, the incredible thirty-minute post has now taken me an incredible one-hundred-twenty minutes to write, and I have to go look for a job. So all you people out there in internet land, have yourself a bright shiny day.
Recite the Litany Against Meta-Blogging
I will not meta-blog.
Meta-blogging is the post-rotter.
Meta-blogging is the referential-humor that empties all meaning.
I will end my meta-blogging.
I will reach within myself and post original thought.
And when the post has published I will read it over and see its thought.
Where the hyperlinks would go there will be nothing.
Only my thought will remain.
So a blog I read linked to another blog, and I went there. By 'went' I mean I stayed in exactly the same physical spot, sitting in my chair, and moved the mouse so that the cursor on the screen hovered over blue-highlighted text, and then I pressed the button on top of the mouse.
Then the blue text grew bigger and bigger until it climbed out of the screen and swallowed my head, and while my head was inside the belly of the glowing blue words that spoke only of the true path, I heard a voice in my mind.
The voice was talking about blogging- with great wit- and it was going on about how it had been considering itself the pinnacle of blogging eliteness until it recently came across its old records of its first blog, and was now shamed as no disembodied voice had been shamed before. Then it recited examples of its shame.
What terrified me about this, other than that I thought the glowing blue words' digestive juices were beginning to dissolve my brain, was that a few of the disembodied voice's examples of shamefulness were stuff I admit I might very well produce. Oh, the horror.
I have yet to actually say anything about my life. This blog is supposed to be dedicated to improving my life. So this must be remedied.
I said I was unemployed. Well, I have a job interview tomorrow. I'm twenty-one, I have an extremely spotty work history, and I have no marketable skills; so it's with a temp agency that pays seven-fifty an hour, but I've had much worse. I'll be happy to get it, for now.
I have a spotty work history because:
1. The only thing I have resembling a marketable skill is my familiarity with personal computers- except I know next to nothing about networks and I never learned the registry when Win95 came out.
2. Twice I have passed a long period of unemployment by working for my dad. (a carpenter) Having a little work kept me just comfortable enough to keep me from looking for a real job very hard. Working for my dad is of course under the table, low paid, humiliating, and not an asset to a resume.
3. Every 'real' job I have had has ended in two months, save one. The job that lasted longer than two months was my first job, as a page (read: book shelver) in the children's department of the public library. I was never fired. Either it was a temp job or something would cause me to quit. In one case I fell down the stairs and broke my ankle; the shop I was working in didn't have worker's comp.
4. My college excursion in Texas- which I will not go into detail about here- was a disaster. It also kept me from working much that year, giving me another long, ominous 'period of unemployment'.
So now I've finished writing my post in an incredible ninety minutes, it's way too damn late at night, and I'm not going to be my best tomorrow.
But damn it, this blog is important to me! I had to make a post. I needed to calm down, give the little devils a chance to go out and run around and tire themselves out. Now, maybe I can sleep. Good night.
What, you're still reading this?
That first post was very serious, and although I think it was completely appropriate, it bothers me because I don't want this blog to be depressing. It has to be fun to read. But I'm not going to just tell jokes and other randomnesses, I don't want to try and wax profound on movies or other media, and I'm not going to go link hunting to bring you the news. There are far wittier and worldlier people's blogs that
I go to for that; their links are on my sidebar. Point of fact, I'm going to try and only put links to blogs I actually read regularly myself over there. So if you want news and movies, try one of those links.
So what is it that I want people to come
here for?
Allotment Gardening suffers from my difficulty. It is- as I intend
this blog to be- a straightforward running account of a project; and, I'm afraid, it's rather dry. I read it because I find it interesting. But it's not strictly 'entertaining'; It's virtue is its candidness and that it stays utterly on the subject. I just found this blog, and I'm afraid that the Blogger who writes it (His name is Pat) has stopped doing it, as he hasn't posted in over three weeks according to his time stamp- although he's talking about October in a recent post, so his dates may just be mixed up. I'd e-mail him and tell him I like his blog, but he doesn't seem to have any html knowledge; he hasn't added any links or given an e-mail address. Oh well, I hope he goes back to it.
But right there is another thing I want to try and avoid, at least in the
beginning: meta-blogging.
Never the less I feel the need to do it right now. Because to my amazement the people I'm linking to- the ones that do link hunting, commentary, and random humor- are actually linking
back. And they were linking back when all I had on this page was the Definitions. This must be some sort of netiquette thing about reciprocating links.
On the other hand, Wynette over at
What Would Vegeta Do actually QUOTED me, so apparently she actually read my one post. To my horror the sentence she quoted is one that I wish I hadn't written- it's just a little too hyperbolic. So much so that I've gone and changed it. I'm sorry, I'm a perfectionist. In fact, I've already edited that post several times. And the Definitions as well. This, after spending more than two evenings working on both posts.
Which brings me to my next issue: I can't spend hours and hours writing and re-writing these posts. It doesn't help that I don't have a well-developed writing habit; it takes me an hour just to get into the mood, after having checked all the blogs that I follow and all the things they've linked to. I need to be able to turn on the computer, rattle off a progress report, and then get on with this revolution of one.
And it has to be damned interesting, or no-one's going to come back to read it.
So, in short:
1. The posts must be interesting to read.
2. The posts should mostly have original, coherent, non-referential content.
3. I need to be able to write the posts quickly.
That, and there's something wrong with the rather advanced HTML that formats this webpage; it keeps making my sidebar a footer when I add things to it. So far I've been able to make adjustments to squelch it, but I'm going to have to learn cascading style sheets in order to fix it permanently. And in
my browser, the blog isn't using up all of the space on the left side. And the font size is too large.
These and other adventures in the next issue of The Thought Sink!
It Has To Start Somehow
This web log will have three parts: a
beginning, a
middle, and an
end.
Here is the
beginning:
It's true that you only get one chance to make a first impression. But then again, with a blog you're going to make that first impression over and over again as new people read it. I spent a long time agonizing over how I was going to start this, ranging from anecdotes to stream-of-consciousness soul dumping. I love to quote, as you may have noticed from the definitions I put up first; but at some point you have to stop reading from a book and speak for yourself. So two weeks into this project, I'm finally ready to start talking, and I've remembered that my greatest strength is my honesty. So I'm just going to be candid.
Greetings, people of the internet. My name is Robin. This is my Thought Sink.
I came up with the idea of a thought sink years ago but didn't think it was good for anything other than an e-mail address that everyone mistakes for 'thoughts ink'. Once in the distant past I made a very brief attempt at a blog; the blog was excrement of the most noxious order. Interestingly enough, I started it for very nearly the same reason, if not with the same intentions in mind.
Because sometimes
I just can't get the thoughts out of my head. Thoughts that tear on the wall of my skull like a Tasmanian devil; both like that animated tornado of claws, a devouring maelstrom, and the real thing, a violent born-rabid bloodthirsty rat-wolf that fights with a sheer nuttiness beyond all bounds of reason and looks forward to being cornered. And they want
out. There's this pressure on my head like the things are throwing themselves bodily against the back of my eyeballs, like bombs are going off and my ears are popping from the blast wave; and it sounds like someone constantly scanning with an AM radio, like I'm watching all the televisions in the electronics department at once when they're all tuned to different channels. And it doesn't make any sense, even to me, it's all just frenetic randomness, beating down the door, then gone again like a storm at sea leaving me adrift with smashed rigging. Like a face you see for a moment in the swaying leaves of a tree, and then it's gone. There's no order. And sometimes I just think if I could only squeeze my head
hard enough the thoughts would pop out of my head and into my hands and then my hands would
do something. My hands move a lot, when I 'm thinking, just making motions in the air that my brain must be telling them correspond to my thoughts, but it looks to me like I'm twitching.
That stuff I just wrote, that's what I meant by stream-of-consciousness. I'm going to try and keep it to a minimum because it makes my hands start moving around and then it's hard to type.
I don't do anything with my thoughts. I don't write or draw or train or perform or play an instrument with them; I let them foment in their bone prison like a dream deferred. That's why I need a thought sink, to relieve the pressure.
But a sink is not a vent. It does not blow off all your accumulated energy in one explosive release, wasting it. A sink is a steady, controlled, drain. It absorbs, fills up with, and becomes imbued with what it sinks. It is a conductor.
And more than that. It is a
conduit. Because a sink has to go somewhere. This thought sink-
my Thought Sink- leads to my hands. I am going to get the thoughts out. I am going to force them out through the tips of my fingers. I am going to learn to use my hands.
And I'm going to do that because I am looking forward again, not because I have to cover my ass, as I have in the past, but because I want something from the future. And for once I am going to get what I want from life,
So help me God.
My thoughts have been telling me for a long time that I may have a rather large and complicated idea. I don't actually understand it myself, and it may in fact not make any sense at all. It is almost undoubtedly unoriginal. Furthermore, I don't have the least inkling how to even begin to communicate it to someone else, and it is not terribly likely that it has any practical application.
And I don't expect anyone out there (*is* there anyone out there?) to be willing to listen while I stumble through it.
Fortunately, for that last problem, at least, I have a solution.
I said I love to quote. The following is reportedly inscribed upon the tomb of an anonymous bishop installed circa 1100 A.D., in the crypt of Westminster Abbey:
"When I was young and free and my imagination had no limits, I dreamed of changing the world. As I grew older and wiser, I discovered the world would not change, so I shortened my sights somewhat and decided to change only my country.
But it, too, seemed immovable.
As I grew into my twilight years, in one last desperate attempt, I settled for changing only my family, those closest to me, but alas, they would have none of it.
And now, as I lie on my deathbed, I suddenly realize: If I had only changed myself first, then by example I would have changed my family.
From their inspiration and encouragement, I would then have been able to better my country, and who knows, I may have even changed the world."
I am going to change myself. I do not have to look hard to find something to improve; my life has been a pile of shattered fragments as long as I can remember. I stopped attending college, I have no job, I am unfit, I have exactly four friends in the world whom I do not see as they are in college or elsewhere engaged, and in short, I have no life.
But all this will change. And I will write, here, about how in the hell I figure out how to change it. And maybe after I've learned all I need to know to manage my life, and shown someone that I can do it, then maybe I will have learned to understand myself, and to explain myself, and someone will be interested enough to listen.
This is it for me.
It was late when I finished that. The computer deleted half that post and I had to re-write it from memory. Now it is much later, and tomorrow is, as always, a big day. To anyone reading this before bed, I wish you sweet dreams, and that you wake rested. Good night.
Definitions:
* * *
"If you bring forth what is within you,
what is within you will save you.
If you do not bring forth what is within you,
what is within you will kill you."
-- attributed to Jesus in the heretical gospel of St.Thomas the Apostle
* * *
- thought, noun:
- 1. a: the action or process of thinking: COGITATION; b: serious consideration: REGARD; c: archaic: RECOLLECTION, REMEMBRANCE
2. a: reasoning power; b: the power to imagine: CONCEPTION
3. something that is thought: as a: an individual act or product of thinking; b: a developed intention or plan; c: something (as an opinion or belief) in the mind; d: the intellectual product or the organized views and principles of a period, place, group, or individual
- sink, noun:
- 1. basin for washing something: a basin that is fixed or mounted against a wall, and has a piped water supply and drainage
2. cesspool: a cesspool, drain, or sewer
- heat sink, noun:
- 1. An environment capable of absorbing heat from an object with which it is in thermal contact without a phase change or an appreciable change in temperature.
2. A protective device that absorbs and dissipates the excess heat generated by a system.
* * *
It has to go somewhere.
* * *
