I'm Only Sleeping

The city smells rotten today. Down by the water, in the shade and breeze the thermometer reads 88 degrees; in the city it's easily close to 100. This morning was garbage pick-up, so all the slime provoked by the humidity slid out and smeared the streets and it reeks like fish and trash and heat.


I'll post my pictures (taken with a real camera) sometime soon. For now I'll just talk about them.

Creepy story part one:
I like taking pictures of stone statues, especially the cherubs on gravestones. I was doing a series of photos that I hoped would make them look alive, and in some ways it worked. However, the pictures that I took in broad daylight of their faces came out black as night in the background. In the three pictures where there should have been softly colored flowers and gravestones there is darkness, in one of them there is a slight blue streak, but nothing else for light.
Creepy story part two:
I went to the graveyard in the middle of dover, and I found a beautiful statue of an angel, at least a hundred years old. I tried to photograph it with my digital camera, but the shutter wouldn't snap. The camera died four times due to "low battery", but walking back to the car, the battery was full again and the shutter worked fine.
Creepy story part three:
I returned with a real camera to the same place, figuring it wouldn't be as temperamental as a digital. When I got there, the angel statue was gone. All that is there now is a small cherub with its head broken off. I should've taken a picture of it as proof- we all know film never lies- but I didn't. I figured that whatever was there should be respected. Wayne thinks its sacreligious to take pictures of graves, but I honor the dead in my own way. Apparantly, this entity agreed with Wayne, so I left it alone. Some people just want to sleep.

Besa mi mucho

At work:

I just opened a hershey's kiss, and it had six of those little paper strips in it. It made me laugh, because I can picture someone in a factory watching them go by and throwing on some extra papers from the floor. Cause if I worked there, I'd totally do that.

I law the fought and the won law

Today I am guilty of:
Taking pictures of the samurai who guards the garden, waving Lebanese sailors, drinking water out of someone else's glass, using the work phone to call Wang, hitting the spacebar too hard when I type.

I am innocent of that big stink in the copyroom (I am just the one who found it)

And you'll never prove I caught up on blogging and blog-reading on company time. Shame on you for accusing me.

This was a survey-style, but I'll just lump up the guilties and the not-guilties.

Bless me internet deities, for I have sinned. It has been a longass time since my last confession and I am guilty of the following sins:
I am guilty of singing in the shower, of leaving the stove on, I stole something from a friend, bossed my friends around, played with barbies, left love bites on past or present boyfriend, lit candles and let the wax run where it pleased, made a cd mix to "do it" to, kissed a poster of my favorite star (when I was 13, Ryder Strong), played air guiter, had sex with an almost-stranger, made someone cry, opened a christmas present early, was caught doin' something dirty, time warped at the senior prom, sang cheesy 80s songs, dug for buried treasure, told a family member to Fuck OFF, lied to protect a friend, got lost in my own little world, played a video game for more than five consecutive hours (Fable, how I adore thee!), and dyed my hair a color from the rainbow.

Woe unto me. But, net gods, take into consideration all that I am not guilty of, I have not:
Listened to stupid music and said I like it, pulled a Wrestling move on someone (not recently)had a Lite Brite toy,threw a surprise party for someone or yourself, found money, and didn't turn it in, given money to a homeless person, NEVER have I thought Star Wars was cool, nor have I pretended to be a South Park cartoon -not even in the shower! I have not had a super-hero costume, I do not always sleep with my baby blanket, seen "the goonies" more than 10 times, watched "Scream" and actually Screamed, or Hugged your mom in the past 24 hours (I've hugged MY mom, though, you naughty dog)And I have not drank until I passed out, just until I wanted to.

There. Give me my penance that I may be cleansed. And everyone else can tell me what they're guilty of.

Damn people who think they're cool.

I just want to know one thing... WHO was so irresponsible as to let Mary listen to the Dresden Dolls? Now she's quoting them. Entire songs. Now I have to find a new band to like and its NOT AS EASY AS IT USED TO BE.

Shakin' in mah boots

I just messed up pretty big at work. I had a stack of 12 pages that each needed to be copied 11 times. I got halfway through it and He came in to tell me that nothing is ever, ever copied before he sees it. I figured that writing the original draft and having me fix the edits counted as having seen it, but I was mistaken.

So there I was in the copy room, hands shaking, trying to explain my mistake- the same one I made last week. Two minutes later he's in here asking, "If the opportunity were to arise, would you consider working here full time, five days a week?" He was just thinking out loud, but the idea that after repeated mess-ups, immediately after the latest one, he would still be interested in having me work here shows you how nice he is, and how hard this job rocks.

Lets do the math.

40 (hours per week)
x13 (dollars per hour)
----
520. Yeegads. I didn't do the math up 'til this point 'cause the words "full time" hadn't been mentioned yet. So we're looking at probably 460 or so after taxes. Not bad at all.

Hmm. 460x4(weeks) = 1840 per month - $250 rent (at Clune's), -$50 groceries, -$60 cell phone, -$50 gas=1430. And that's with alot of groceries and a completely paid off cell phone, which come to think of it has a $225 spending limit. I could pay off my bills in about a year if I never bought ANYTHING EVER AGAIN. I could pay off my mom pretty quick, at least. Even with a car payment.. oh god. Car. If I got a $400 per month payment (which is more than what JJ has on his 2001) I could STILL afford things.

Life just opened up for a minute, like sunlight in the clouds. But I'm not full time. I'm barely part time. I work about six, seven hours a week if I'm lucky. So let's look at this again:

13(dollars)
x 6(hours)
---
78. So maybe 60 after taxes. So 60x4(weeks)= 240, -no rent (at Wayne's), -no groceries, -cancelled cell phone, -$30 gas, -$500 vet bill after chopping things off my puppy= $-290.

Ah life.

No, Nay, Never

A bunch of us were at Dover's fireworks last night; we chose to go there rather than to Durham because an Irish folk band had been advertised as the night's performers. The ONLY song we recognized as Irish was "Wild Rover". They filled the rest of the bill with songs like, "Puff the Magic Dragon", and "Yankee Doodle Dandy". "IRISH"?

I don't have much else to comment on at the moment... anyone want a really sweet terrier? He might need a new home. I don't want to think about that right now.

A toast for the day, kids:

" Here's to the mothers in the park
The ugly women chiefly
Someone must've loved them once
But in the dark and briefly."

The whipping post awaits

I'm so tired of being yelled at. Everyone yells at me, and I don't even care who's right anymore. It's probably cause I've been up so long, and I know that when I wake up, I'm just going to get yelled at for that too.
I'm so fucking miserable when I don't get enough sleep. Before you start with the punishments, can I just have a hug, someone? Please?

Concert-induced pissed-off-ness

My future father-in-law just made his first comment that ended "just between you and me" about the family. For those who haven't experienced it yet, its kind of a big deal when your future in-law secretly agrees with you on something.

Last night was the No Address/ Breaking Benjamin/ Staind/ Three Doors Down concert. It was a decent show. Breaking Benjamin's first few songs all had the same beat, and each of the light patterns matched the beat, so they got a little boring in the beginning. Staind rocked. I don't even listen to Staind and still really enjoyed their set. Three Doors Down was another band I didn't think I listened to very much; turns out I knew more than half the songs, I just didn't know they were theirs. The lead signer looked coked out of his mind, and he was going for some preppy-boho-surfer look that wasn't entirely convincing. He didn't put on much of a show himself. The pyro and the giant gears onstage were cool, and the screens showing the music videos was a nice touch, but when you'd rather watch the music videos than the band playing three feet in front of you, you're putting on a boring performance. The guitarist had everyone's attention most of the time, cause he played to the crowd while Cokehead just seemed like he was there to sing and get paid. (P.S. Living for the music, my ass.)

The best and the worst of crowd stereotypes surrounded us. And before I get into this, realize that the place was not packed so snug that prolonged physical contact was necessary.

There was some guy who grabbed my hand as he and his buddy walked by. There was Army Guy, Bald Guy and Big Boy, whom I have to thank for getting me fight up front. Army guy didn't realize Wayne and I were together and carried on conversations with my boobs during each break for setup. There were the Androgynies, a young couple who could've been male and/or female, whose only activities were making out and inadvertently feeling me up in the process. Just cause I'm taller than you by a good twelve or so inches doesn't mean I don't feel your hand on my ass. If you're gonne grope someone, make sure you have the right ass. And you paid at least $100 bucks for the privilidge of standing spit-far from the stage, WHY ARE YOU WASTING YOUR MONEY? You could've spent $40 on seats, spent the rest on condoms and actually HAD sex rather than faking it for four hours and getting me all mad at you.

Then we had Drunk Guy, whom Wayne had to protect me from by actually standing behind me with his arms on the barricade. Drunk guy was yet another short person trying to make out with his girlfriend and dance at the same time, and the product of his efforts was me with a legful of his ass. Four elbows to the back of the head didn't discourage him at all, and as Wayne was standing over me, shielding me with his body he looked down and said, "I'm taking an ass for you." That's love, people. That's something real.

Can I, while I'm thinking of it, make a comment about hair? I'm directing this to two girls who, according to my observations and those of Bald Guy, Army Guy and Big Boy, thought they were miniature versions of Paris and Nicole (and apparantly, get really mad when people like me say that loud enough for them to hear). Ladies, especially Paris and Nicole: constantly twirling your hair and tossing your head from side to side is NOT going to get the attention of the lead singer, nor any other worthwhile man in the crowd- not the kind you want, anyway. What it WILL do, though, is irritate the people who are taller than you, when the arm attached to the hair-twirling fingers continually rubs up against one spot on the same arm long enough to cause numbness, and when the bopping head hits my shoulder, shoulder, shoulder, shoulder over and over and over and over.

When I come home and have your hair gel on my skin, I'm not happy to have met you. A second hair comment, and this relates to dancing: No, I generally don't dance at concerts; and when your best move is the one where you gather your hair up and pull it over your shoulder (four, five, six times in one song) you shouldn't either. I'm sure you think its sexy when your stripper friends do it, but when they dance, no one cares if they're good at it. Why? Because they're naked. You're clothed (thank God) and you look like a moron, and everyone around you hates you for covering them in strands of your greasy hair, so don't try to convince the people around you they should be dancing, too. They know something you don't know.

So, in conclusion, I hate crowds of short people, I hate being touched, and No Address is better than Three Doors Down. Three Doors Down needs to stop resting on the platinum-record laurels and get their asses to work making their trade a little more enjoyable for the folks who spent their hard-earned money to observe it.