Console.log has become my best friend. That’s too much. It’s not like console.log will ever encourage me to go for that second scoop of ice cream. Rather, console.log has become my code-specific bestie, Connie Dotlogue.
It never failed that when I’d knit without doing a swatch first, I’d have to undo half of the sweater, mitten, whatever. Or I’d just stubbornly finish it and give it to someone with the idea it was always for him. Yes, him, because I don’t have a lot of female friends who are 6′ tall and weigh 200 pounds. My little impulsive self has learned to do the swatch. I still roll my eyes. I still hum and rock back and forth because this is killing me inside, but I get over it (often with cake), and eventually do the math, convert my pattern, and make something purty.
Console.log interrupted me in the same way:
Moi: Bah! Console dot log tonsil got frog. I’m on a roll. I’m on fire. LOOK AT ME I’M — fut the wuck? Why won’t my code work?
TIY Instructor A: What happened when you console logged it?
TIY Instructor J: You did console log it, right?
Moi: Mmmmmmmayb—no. No. I did not. DAMMIT! Found out and shamed.
Unlike the swatch, console.log can be what I want it to be. Just writing console.log(charArr) or console.log(“you got to here”) would do nothing for me. It wasn’t until I learned to have a full on chat with myself that I met Connie Dotlogue. If it is fun, I will do it all of the time. I amuse myself. These are my experiments, my solutions to algorithms, my projects, so Connie has the personality I need for each project. Sometimes it has a potty mouth. Other times it’s sassy. When I’m really being taxed, consol
I know. When I do this for a team or an employer, Connie will have to wear her casual-Friday attire, but until then she is wearing a t-shirt and no pants!