All of my internet friends have had a horrible day today and I didn’t know how to help
so I drew a worried owl for you all
his name is Boggle
oh!! ;_; thank you boggle
boggle ; ___________ ;
Boggle, I don’t think you know how much this helped.
OMG this is the cutest thing, I can’t.
My conscience won’t let me call Ruby a computer language. That would imply that the language works primarily on the computer’s terms. That the language is designed to accomodate the computer, first and foremost. That therefore, we, the coders, are foreigners, seeking citizenship in the computer’s locale. It’s the computer’s language and we are translators for the world.
But what do you call the language when your brain begins to think in that language? When you start to use the language’s own words and colloquialisms to express yourself. How can it be the computer’s language? It is ours, we speak it natively!
We can no longer call it a computer language. It is the language of our thoughts.
Interesting and… :(
Would anyone miss you? Nobody noticed when Joyce Vincent died in her bedsit above a shopping mall in North London in 2003. Her body wasn’t discovered for three years, surrounded by Christmas presents she had been wrapping, and with the TV still on. Newspaper reports offered few details of her life— not even a photograph.