Jesus Christ. I think I got spoiled at work. I think its the PMS, but the temper and the attitude I have to actively work to check lately. Lady came in today wanting to know what her assignment was. I gritted my teeth, and hoped she thought it was a smile. She lumbered off to ask her teacher what she was supposed to be doing (who'da thunk that the TEACHER would know what she needs to do?)She came back. She's supposed to do 4-5 pages on "a debatable topic". Obviously, this will require research with the aid of a computer. Did I mention she's COMPLETELY FUCKING COMPUTER ILLITERATE? Like, I had to show her how to log in, how to get to the internet, where to type the web address, why she couldn't click on the sponsored links on Google...this paper's due Friday. She, of course, is a one finger hunt and pecker. She should have started typing this paper last Tuesday.
I officially advocate the fuck out of placement tests for anything lower than master's level courses.
But other than that, my life has been lovely. I like Barbies and crossword puzzles and tea and blankets and CSI and America's Next Top Model in marathon form (like there is any other!).
I dyed my hair with the idea that eventually it will lighten, redden and do its thing. I think I'm going back to braids.
I need to write more.
I need to finish The Watchmen.
Also, I still have no idea what to give up for lent. ideally something to make me thin. Maybe I will give up not smoking.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
There you are, wild and free
So, I (kinda) put myself out of my misery and took a pregnancy test. Good news: I dropped clean on that shit.
Downside: I still have this mystery rash on my torso mostly, and it itches sometimes, but things didn't start itching until this week. There's a kind of rough layer of skin on my lips too. My hands are starting to look weird too. My skin on my face is not looking the way it usually does, and I feel like I just look toxic overall. I also might have a UTI. Great. I see the doctor on Saturday. I can just see it now:
SCENE: INT. Doctor's office exam room. Day. Not that it matters since exam rooms have no windows. ENTER DR. L.
Dr. L (not my regular doctor, but he is the other doctor my regular doctor practices with): what brings you in today?
Me: this occasionally itchy rash, UTI symptoms, and an overall diseased look.
Dr. L: I see. We're going to need backup, a dermatologist, and a cigarette. (into walkie talkie) Breaker, breaker, 1-9, this is Dr. Manhattan to the front, do you read me, over?
Walkie talkie: (indeciperable gibberish)
Dr. L: go ahead and get the skin man, a cancer stick, and a slice of your mom's fantastic pie. We're also going to need all the backup we can get.
Me: does the cigarette do something for the rash?
Dr. L: no, but judging from the look of things, we could be here awhile.
Me: oh (starts nicotine lust)
(ENTER FABULOUS BACKUP SINGERS, in tight magenta sequinned dresses. They should be hefty black women, like Jennifer Hudson in Dreamgirls, but far fatter. There are three of them. All parts delivered by them are sung.)
Fabulous backup singers: be here awhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile!
Me: Can I at least have some pie?
Dr. L: may as well, looks as if you're going to die anyway.
Fabulous backup singers: you're gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!! (jazz hands)
END SCENE.
But on the upside, the sore throat and overall shittiness is going away.
And...still in love. Still mentally going places I have no business going. Like entertaining the notion of having a family. What is wrong with me? All I do is judge people who start that kind of talk three months into a relationship. I had issues with other people dropping the l bomb as early as we did. And now all I can see is a yard full of kids with crazy curly hair and caramel skin. Jesus Christ, stop me.
Even if you counted the 4 months we were together prior to 2008, that still only puts us at ~7 months. Which is still kind of early for that kind of talk.
Dammit, love is a cynic's kryptonite.
And now, to remember what kind of person I was like before I became a total sellout, I'm reading The Watchmen. I like it. It's dark, and reminiscent of the noir Hammett novels I used to read and adore.
I want snacks.
It's cold.
Downside: I still have this mystery rash on my torso mostly, and it itches sometimes, but things didn't start itching until this week. There's a kind of rough layer of skin on my lips too. My hands are starting to look weird too. My skin on my face is not looking the way it usually does, and I feel like I just look toxic overall. I also might have a UTI. Great. I see the doctor on Saturday. I can just see it now:
SCENE: INT. Doctor's office exam room. Day. Not that it matters since exam rooms have no windows. ENTER DR. L.
Dr. L (not my regular doctor, but he is the other doctor my regular doctor practices with): what brings you in today?
Me: this occasionally itchy rash, UTI symptoms, and an overall diseased look.
Dr. L: I see. We're going to need backup, a dermatologist, and a cigarette. (into walkie talkie) Breaker, breaker, 1-9, this is Dr. Manhattan to the front, do you read me, over?
Walkie talkie: (indeciperable gibberish)
Dr. L: go ahead and get the skin man, a cancer stick, and a slice of your mom's fantastic pie. We're also going to need all the backup we can get.
Me: does the cigarette do something for the rash?
Dr. L: no, but judging from the look of things, we could be here awhile.
Me: oh (starts nicotine lust)
(ENTER FABULOUS BACKUP SINGERS, in tight magenta sequinned dresses. They should be hefty black women, like Jennifer Hudson in Dreamgirls, but far fatter. There are three of them. All parts delivered by them are sung.)
Fabulous backup singers: be here awhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile!
Me: Can I at least have some pie?
Dr. L: may as well, looks as if you're going to die anyway.
Fabulous backup singers: you're gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!! (jazz hands)
END SCENE.
But on the upside, the sore throat and overall shittiness is going away.
And...still in love. Still mentally going places I have no business going. Like entertaining the notion of having a family. What is wrong with me? All I do is judge people who start that kind of talk three months into a relationship. I had issues with other people dropping the l bomb as early as we did. And now all I can see is a yard full of kids with crazy curly hair and caramel skin. Jesus Christ, stop me.
Even if you counted the 4 months we were together prior to 2008, that still only puts us at ~7 months. Which is still kind of early for that kind of talk.
Dammit, love is a cynic's kryptonite.
And now, to remember what kind of person I was like before I became a total sellout, I'm reading The Watchmen. I like it. It's dark, and reminiscent of the noir Hammett novels I used to read and adore.
I want snacks.
It's cold.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Excess ain't rebellion. I'm drinking what they're selling.
Turns out I am paranoid without even partaking in herbal activities.
I'm fine. I just like to give myself a good scare, just to see if I can still be scared.
Good news: I can.
The internet/server ate my last two (possibly three) attempts at publicly expressing myself. Let's go for the gold son!
Apparently "Sex on Fire" won a Grammy. You go, Kings of Leon!
When money talks, I hate to listen, but lately it's been screaming in my ear.
I wish that people who are in charge of doling out the jobs were cool. It's just like, judge me on how qualified I am, and not how many holes I have in my head or the colors I've added to my skin and hair. I need a job that pays well and does not mind a few extra holes or visible tattoos.
I love this record, baby, but I can't see straight anymore.
As long as the soda cans are red, white, and blue ones!
I'm excited for the weekend. To the point where new, cute underwear was purchased. Well underwear was one part excitement, two parts necessity, and one part lazy. I need to laundry.
He is just that into me.
I swear I'm the marrying kind.
And none for Gretchen Wieners, bye!
I'm fine. I just like to give myself a good scare, just to see if I can still be scared.
Good news: I can.
The internet/server ate my last two (possibly three) attempts at publicly expressing myself. Let's go for the gold son!
Apparently "Sex on Fire" won a Grammy. You go, Kings of Leon!
When money talks, I hate to listen, but lately it's been screaming in my ear.
I wish that people who are in charge of doling out the jobs were cool. It's just like, judge me on how qualified I am, and not how many holes I have in my head or the colors I've added to my skin and hair. I need a job that pays well and does not mind a few extra holes or visible tattoos.
I love this record, baby, but I can't see straight anymore.
As long as the soda cans are red, white, and blue ones!
I'm excited for the weekend. To the point where new, cute underwear was purchased. Well underwear was one part excitement, two parts necessity, and one part lazy. I need to laundry.
He is just that into me.
I swear I'm the marrying kind.
And none for Gretchen Wieners, bye!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ
I am in a panic. Not even on the streets of London.
Right now I need to clear my head and contact a health care professional. I'm going to talk to my friend who is a nurse this afternoon, and I really need to shake this only slightly logical paranoia. This post is about clearing my head.
My body is doing weird things....well, let me rephrase. I can't tell if my body really is doing weird things or if its only acting weird because I'm acting weird because I only think its doing weird things. The words make sense in that order, I promise.
In the last couple of months, I have become hyper aware of my body almost to the point of (okay, definitely to the point of) paranoia.Things like "I'm getting fatter, is that winter hibernation weight or is that pregnancy weight?", "my period was a day late, oh god what does that mean?", "my period tapered off really abruptly, what the French toast does that indicate?" are all followed by or punctuated with "ohmigodohmigodohmigod". Now as I type, these thoughts look silly in visual words. I mean, I have never been dumb about a sexual encounter. But you know, things happen. Condoms break, rip, slip, tear. I am 95-7% sure that a mishap didn't occur, but you know, what if? Moral of the story, I really should get on the pill and eliminate this shit for good.
There, I said it. Moving on.
I would like to peace the fuck out of Kalamazoo, Michigan. My lease is up at the end of April and I would like to move back to Chicago (I love the city tonight, I love the city always). There are jobs, its just a matter of moving costs. I have found decently priced apartments in okay neighborhoods, and I could always room with someone from craigslist or something if it came to it. Well, "decently priced" can run anywhere from 5-600 for a studio if I am lucky. Good thing I am not claustrophobic. Some are cheaper, but require people skills which, now that I think about it, would not be so bad. I am always looking to expand my social network, especially in cities where I have a very small circle of friends who live there. I feel like there's a catch-22: living spaces require money, aka a job. Jobs require a place to live. And the cycle begins anew. I can't find my pants, film at 11. Stay tuned.
I have chosen to accept a mission. Yes, that mission.
It's pretty funny that for the second time ever, I have a valentine on valentines day. Also funny: I've either spent valentine's day with Matt or nobody at all. Ideally, this v-day would be spent looking at sharks at Shedd Aquarium.
I'm happy and I'm writing. we'll see where this goes.
okay, I'm done brain vomiting.
Right now I need to clear my head and contact a health care professional. I'm going to talk to my friend who is a nurse this afternoon, and I really need to shake this only slightly logical paranoia. This post is about clearing my head.
My body is doing weird things....well, let me rephrase. I can't tell if my body really is doing weird things or if its only acting weird because I'm acting weird because I only think its doing weird things. The words make sense in that order, I promise.
In the last couple of months, I have become hyper aware of my body almost to the point of (okay, definitely to the point of) paranoia.Things like "I'm getting fatter, is that winter hibernation weight or is that pregnancy weight?", "my period was a day late, oh god what does that mean?", "my period tapered off really abruptly, what the French toast does that indicate?" are all followed by or punctuated with "ohmigodohmigodohmigod". Now as I type, these thoughts look silly in visual words. I mean, I have never been dumb about a sexual encounter. But you know, things happen. Condoms break, rip, slip, tear. I am 95-7% sure that a mishap didn't occur, but you know, what if? Moral of the story, I really should get on the pill and eliminate this shit for good.
There, I said it. Moving on.
I would like to peace the fuck out of Kalamazoo, Michigan. My lease is up at the end of April and I would like to move back to Chicago (I love the city tonight, I love the city always). There are jobs, its just a matter of moving costs. I have found decently priced apartments in okay neighborhoods, and I could always room with someone from craigslist or something if it came to it. Well, "decently priced" can run anywhere from 5-600 for a studio if I am lucky. Good thing I am not claustrophobic. Some are cheaper, but require people skills which, now that I think about it, would not be so bad. I am always looking to expand my social network, especially in cities where I have a very small circle of friends who live there. I feel like there's a catch-22: living spaces require money, aka a job. Jobs require a place to live. And the cycle begins anew. I can't find my pants, film at 11. Stay tuned.
I have chosen to accept a mission. Yes, that mission.
It's pretty funny that for the second time ever, I have a valentine on valentines day. Also funny: I've either spent valentine's day with Matt or nobody at all. Ideally, this v-day would be spent looking at sharks at Shedd Aquarium.
I'm happy and I'm writing. we'll see where this goes.
okay, I'm done brain vomiting.
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