My browser is playing hell with me today.
This is pretty grim, so you might want to skip this paragraph. I've got a rash. The rash is the result of having my period for three weeks, and wearing those pads with wings. It was the wings that got to me......so I'm hoping this whole thing lets up soon, and my body finally decides to forgive and forget.
Anyway, the rash is my explanation for my touchiness yesterday.
It's time for our mid-review period meeting with Rebecca (my supervisor). Apparently, the whole office wants a time to meet with her before Alex's, so they can complain about him. He's been pushing all of his work on other people. Not surprising.
I think the only thing that's going my way this week is the fact that my pantyhose aren't disintegrating as quickly as I expected them to. Usually I go through about a pair a day, because I'm clumsy and I haven't yet gotten the knack for wearing skirts.
Okay, I finally got my shit together and updated the Webring page on Diarist.net
On the back of my bottled water, there's a sort of – artistic representation – of where the water theoretically originated. It shows the white-capped Blue Ridge mountains, above the Cherokee National Forest, where the "source" supposedly is. That's all very well and good, but I don't think these people have ever seen the Blue Ridge Mountains. It's an old mountain range, geologically speaking. No part of it has snowcaps, or stark ridges. They actually look a lot like oversized hills, because they've been eroded so much.
The water probably came out of a tap just like our regular, much-cheaper water. I bet it wasn't even an "alpine" tap.
Last night, I slept. I was rudely awoken at about eight-thirty by my mother, so we could discuss what I was going to wear today. And so I could get my bangs cut. I know, I know. I'm twenty, I ought to go the salon like everyone else. But I haven't gotten over my phobia for those places, and I'm cheap.
Dirk and I are supposed to go out with Doshu and Jason tonight. Jason, for those not paying attention, is the guy Dirk jams with once a week. I haven't met him, but Dirk says he's a pretty cool guy. Dirk's off tonight, which I'm grateful for. I've missed him, and it just doesn't seem worthwhile to visit him on nights he's going to work, just to watch him sleep.
I almost killed my cat, Sasha, this morning. Stupid little thing decided she wanted to come in my room at 4:30 am. Ten minutes later, she wanted to go out again (she signals her desire to leave by using a box as a scratching post). Five minutes later, she wanted to come back in. She kept this up until about five-fifteen, when I made sure to give her a few smacks before I let her out. She complained bitterly and stayed the hell away from my room.
She's such a spoiled little cat. I keep my door closed because the other cats, upon gaining access to my room, immediately show their appreciation by urinating all over the floor. Sasha's the only one I trust (perhaps misguidedly), so I have to get out of bed to let her in and out of the room. I remember when I was about fourteen, she was playing the same trick, wanting to be let in and out of the room every few minutes. At one point, at about 1 in the morning, I decided to kick her before I let her out. The next thing I knew, I'd fallen flat on my back, and Sasha was sitting on my chest, purring.
That'll teach me to abuse my cats.
Letisha isn't here today. Who the hell am I supposed to talk to?
How grim is my job? You honestly can't know. You don't walk the maze of airless beige hallways, dotted randomly with flourescent lights that give off an almost imperceptible hum. You don't listen to the phone ring constantly at just the right pitch to make the hair on the back of your neck rise. You don't look at puce-colored cubicle walls all day.
And, most of all, you don't have to deal with Alex. Even if you qualify for all the other factors, you don't work with Alex. He is a gem. One day, he's going to find this site, and he's not even going to realize that it's me and I'm talking about him. That's how special this boy is.
You also don't drink the sheer amount of "spring" water that I do. Trust me, the liquid adds to the grimness. Especially when you're retaining water as efficiently as I am.
Maybe if I had a book.....a good book. I am currently reading an incredibly depressing account of the first settlers. They were gross nasty people who had the morals of fungus. (I assume fungus has no morals).
(12:00 n) I just saw something neat. Someone did a little synopsis of what they do in the morning. I decided I wanted to detail exactly what I do in the morning.
I wake up at around 5:30. I get in the shower, wash my hair, and debate whether or not I feel like putting forth the effort of a brisk exfoliating facial scrub. If I'm pressed for time, I skip it and just use the cream cleanser that makes my face feel like it's on fire (so it must be working, right?). Then I dry off a bit, bind my hair in a towel turban, and run back to bed. I doze until 6:15. If I'm having a bad day, I'm only allowed to doze until 6:00, whereupon I whine at my mother as she attempts to get me up. When I get up, I lay face down on my bed for about five minutes, recovering from the shower, the nap, and the subsequent end of my doze.
At about 6:20, I finally start getting dressed, then run like a mad chicken around the house trying to get my lunch, my farecard, and my I.D. for work. At 6:30, I rush through brushing my teeth and am out the door. While my mother drives, I brush my hair and bitch about how long it is and the fact that it tangles so badly. If I'm driving, my hair doesn't get a thorough brushing until I get to the office. Just a few half-hearted swipes at the worst tangles.
At about 6:45, we pick up our ride to the Pentagon. The other people waiting for rides hate us, because we don't get in two-door cars, and we always travel together. At 7:00 or so, we get to the Pentagon, where we pick up the Metro (subway) and head on into D.C. At 7:35, I get into my office, brush my hair out again, check my e-mail real quick, then go to the smoking deck to smoke my guts out for half an hour.
Then I play on the Internet and answer phones until lunchtime.
That was invigorating, wasn't it? If you're lucky, I might put up what I do with the rest of my day sometime in the future.
One of the reasons I was so mad at my cat this morning is that she interrupted a dream I had. I dreamt I was riding in my father's car and listening to the new M.M. CD. This was a good dream, because I'd already gotten up and dressed in the dream. Most importantly, I was getting a ride to work, instead of taking my chances with the people who are picking up slugs.
(4:30 pm) I am a very sad kitten right now. I've got a secret to tell you....Dirk's got a pet name for me, one that doesn't consist of my initials. It's –get this– Snugglebutt. Funky Winkerbean, eh? (Quote comes directly from Katie) If anyone besides Dirk calls me this in "real life" (and you know who you are), I'll gut you.
There's even a little song, called "A.S. is a Snugglebutt," that's been written in my honor. Dirk plays it at every practice, without fail. Yesterday Dirk decided that I might be an imposter, and made me sing the song in the middle of work. He kept exhorting me to sing it louder, claiming that I was almost inaudible when I got to the word "Snugglebutt."
Some people give up this journal thing as soon as they meet the slightest opposition. I don't blame them. Sometimes I get this urge to confess all my deep dark secrets. Orgies with my cats. Orgies with Katie. Orgies with all of my online friends. Going to clubs wearing nothing but leather fishnet. Unfortunately, none of that happened.
Hi. My blood sugar soared again.
My neck aches. I've been in front of this computer for far too long. I just wanted to share my happiness with you.
I miss C–. Isn't a week over yet?