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Tuesday, 19 October 1999 (new test leper) 7:37am Well, that settles that. It's gone. I lost it, it's gone, and like most all things that are gone, it's not coming back. My notebook. One of the two notebooks which I carry around, this being the primary of the two. It was originally the notebook for my Cinematheque Management class back in '97 (and on the front I'd written "Cahiers du Cinematheque Management," a film geek inside joke which nobody ever caught), but I hung onto it even when I dropped the class after a few weeks. The fact that I couldn't stand anyone in the class had a lot to do with that, including both the argumentative, bitter, insane woman with the multicolored feathered hair that I still see wandering around the city talking to herself, and the good xtian boy who objected to us showing films with lesbian themes "Because I can't condone that behavior." Anyway, for whatever reason, I kept the notebook for other things. It contains most all of my primary phone numbers, including those for Maddy, Summer, Tania, Dana, Sara, darn near anyone I've met this year—and I don't seem to have much to do anymore with people I didn't meet this year, so it's a pretty broad sweep. In fact, I'm certain that's how I lost it: when I called Dana yesterday, I must have left it at the payphone. (Her number is unlisted and very private, and fortunately her name isn't written next to it. Even if the notebook should fall into the wrong hands, for as many random numbers are scrawled throughout it, there's no way to know it's her number.) That's the last time I remember seeing it, and I was very distraught, so it's entirely possible I left it there. It's the only option left, since it isn't in the car and I can't find it around the apartment. I drove out to that streetcorner earlier this morning just to check. Of course it wasn't there; I knew it wouldn't be there. No way in hell would it be there, not after nearly 20 hours. But I had to go look. The phone numbers aren't what really hurts, since they're replaceable. I'd also used it for occasional impromptu journal entries and the like. Longhand is not my preferred way to compose, but sometimes it'll have to do. That night at Summer's shortly after The Ex and I broke up, all I could do was write. I had absolutely no other way of getting out what was inside of me, and it was killing me. Much of it is little better than a scrawl, as I was writing as fast as I could to keep it as pure as possible. Straight from the vein to the paper, more and undiluted pain and hurt and guilt and self-loathing than has ever even graced these pages, because at the time I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was beyond redemption and in a hell of my own creation. It was the worst place I could possibly be emotionally, and I'd put myself there, it was my own fault and nobody else's. (The Ex was, of course, beyond reproach, an innocent victim of my evil.) Writing it out didn't necessarily make me feel better, exactly, but it was better than nothing, since I couldn't sleep and had no other way to distract myself. And keeping it served as a reminder to myself: this is how bad things can get.
But it's gone now.
Tania, Whitman and myself were walking from their place to Edinburgh Castle on Saturday night. It was much hotter than it should have been. Traffic in San Francisco being what it is, I had to park about 15 blocks from their apartment, and I was sweating profusely when I arrived. It wasn't the walk so much as the heat. Of course, being dressed head to toe in velvet and wearing a leather jacket didn't help, but the coin could have landed in the opposite direction and it would have been bitterly cold. You never can tell. Though I kept the velvet dress on, I switched from my leggings to red-and-black stripeys that I happened to have with me. Much better. Getting actually made up took longer than it should have, since my normally dormant bovine genes kicked in and headed straight for the sweat glands. And where we headed? A bar. Duh.
So we're walking along, and a man walks past us and says one word: "Gothic." Very matter-of-factly. Not with
a sneer of contempt or any noticeable kind of attitude, just the word. I didn't take it as an insult or an
unfair attempt to label me or anything like that. It was just very odd.
Not that I'm getting off so easily. I received mail from HR this morning informing me that I've been rescheduled to another session, in a few weeks. Me, Brian (who is gone for the entire week)...and TFQ. Oh, gawd. Not that. Anything but that...
Outta here in three hours.
I did it. I can't believe I fucking did it. I left my insurance card at home. What is it with me losing stuff these days? At least this, I didn't lose—I'm about 99% positive it's on my desk. I can even picture it, and fully expect to find it when I get home. Still, though, I'm exceedingly annoyed with myself.
Just as well to be getting out of here soon, though. The big guy is especially...projective today. I
didn't even make as many gurgling sounds when I had the suction tube in my mouth at the dentist's office
yesterday.
This is getting very annoying.
I'm actually glad I'll be at work tomorrow, since there's a launch and I wouldn't want Leigh to have to face it alone. And at least this way I I won't have to worry as much on Thursday and Friday. Sometimes I'm really bothered by how dedicated I am to my job. It's quite sickening. Apparently my impending visit is causing no small amount of anticipation amongst Maddy's coworkers. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but it's an exceedingly weird thought all the same. I mean, jeez, it's just me... With everything else going on, I've completely blanked on calling my potential new endoc and making an appointment. Obviously it would have to be in November (around the time that Summer makes good on her threat to make me learn to tango—and I intend to make sure she does), but very soon after I return. And, I need to remember, I finally know what the third Slimming Effect is going to be about, so I need to get that put together and sent off to Perki and hope he still takes it.
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Monday, 18 October 1999 (underneath the bunker) 8:55am Leaving in a little bit. Best case scenario: they take care of me right then and there, and I come home in a few hours to sleep it off. Worst case scenario: "We can maybe squeeze you in late next week."
Here's hoping.
Mind you, before we got to this point they'd sat me down and did the standard x-rays and cleaning. All in anticipation of working on the wisdoms, I'd figured. I popped a vicodin beforehand just in case, but a dental cleaning is still a very jarring experience. I almost prefer zapping, all things considered. Before that was the x-ray: I have a cavity. Then again, their machine runs on Windows software (I kid you not), so I'm not convinced. Anyway, my voice was already beginning to waver by that point, and I got out the office just before I broke down. I'm still not even sure why I cried; frustration, most likely. I can accept that they're booked up, but goddamnit, it didn't even seemed like they cared. There's nothing I hate worse than a blank stare, and that was all I got out of them. It almost felt like a betrayal. After regaining my composure as well as I could hope to, I found a pay phone and called Dana. She lived nearby, and with her sounded like a very safe place to be. Going home didn't feel right, and if I went to work I'd wind up in that damn non-harrassment thing. Mandatory or not, I was in absolutely the wrong emotional state to deal with it. I'd dealt with enough frustration for one day, thank you very much. I cried in her arms for a little bit and got most of it out of my system. She suggested her dentist, and since I was currently feeling no loyalty whatsoever towards mine, it sounded like a good idea. (I wasn't even sure why I had ever switched to that particular office, until I happened to notice my record on one of their computer screens: under "Referred By," I saw Pandora's name. Ah.) Of course, my insurance company's website didn't have her dentist listed as being on the network, but pick pick. Dana had her own bureaucratic windmills to go fight (with almost as much success, unfortunately), so I headed back home. She convinced me that work-wise the day was shot, although I didn't need a whole heck of a lot of convincing. Besides, I still had a lot of red tape to navigate through, and I knew I'd feel more comfortable doing it from home. Dana's dentist is definitely not part of my insurance plan, but a call to the insurance company itself set my mind at ease: they'll cover as much as they consider "usual and customary." Everyone has different ideas about what that means, but it'll still be a hell of a lot less than if I paid the whole thing by myself, so that was good enough for me. Besides, Dana recommended this dentist on a personal level, and that means a lot. (Let's just say I trust her a little more than Pandora in this case.) They checked the schedule. "The next available appointment is 4:45...tomorrow. Is that all right?"
We have a winner.
Both Dana and Leigh have warned me that when on nitrous, one tends to get very talkative and tends to spill everything. Hell, I can be that way when I'm sober, so I'm not too worried...hell, what's left to say? "You're probably wondering about the makeup...funny story..."
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Sunday, 17 October 1999 (burn and coil like cigarettes) 11:47am My tooth doesn't hurt quite as much as yesterday, but it's still not good. Tomorrow, I can only hope that in 24 hours I'll be in nitrous oblivion...
For now, though, I'm at work. Because, you see, I'll be missing at least part of the day
tomorrow (I'm currently planning on coming for a few hours in the morning), so naturally,
I have to make up for it...don't wanna be a slacker...
Sorry about that. Just kinda thrilled that I found my errant dental insurance card.
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Saturday, 16 October 1999 (you are the everything) 8:41am Ow. Why does it always have to be so sunny on Saturdays? Just once, can't it be overcast on days which I sleep past dawn? My windows, you see, face the East. In any event, it got me out of bed and into a productive mood. Much to do. Already I've made an appointment with the dentist; understandably though annoyingly I have to go in for a consultation, in spite of the fact that I'm already in their computer and in fact almost had this procedure done two years ago. Hell, I had to cancel a week beforehand, since the uber-crappy temp job ended unexpectedly and my funding therefore ran out. Granted, shortly thereafter (like, within two weeks) I got the paid internship at Organic and could have probably rescheduled the appointment, but I'd already gotten into the "Oh no I can't POSSIBLY miss a day of work" vibe which still grips me to this day. I'm overcoming it, however. The thing about Monday is, it's the culmination of ultimate evil: the "non-harrassment training" which we're being put through as a result of the big boss's drunken antics during Fun Day way back when. My feelings are extremely mixed. I'm told (by one of the people responsible) that it's not so much about how to be more careful as it is how to report things when they happen. It's quite accurate to say most of us were too nervous to come forward at first, then that fucking inquisition didn't help. I continue to bear eternal hostility towards that weasel of a lawyer. He was like a misogynistic cop trying to get a woman to admit it was her own fault that she got raped since she was dressed "provocatively." The Taliban would love him. (Yeah, okay, I'm ranting.) On the one hand, I want to put the entire incident behind me as much as possible. It got me outed to the department and that was ultimately a good thing (particularly since there was no apparent negative impact), but I also resent the fact that the big boss was not punished in any way for his actions. He's untouchable, and he knows it. If nothing can be done to make up for what happened, I want at least to make sure that it will never happen again. I didn't want to go on the damn trip; it was compulsory, and that was perhaps the greatest violation of all. I want to be at that meeting so I can point right at him and say "I categorically refuse to ever again be around that man when he has access to alcohol. He cannot be trusted, and he had no right to put us in that position to begin with." All very true, as far as I'm concerned. Whether or not I get the opportunity and/or have the courage to say it is another story. If on Monday at the dentist's office they say, "Good lord, your head is going to explode in five minutes if we don't act! Uh, can I see your insurance card?" then I guess I'm going to miss the meeting. If I'm able to make it back in time for the meeting (1pm), it'll be a question of whether my nerve holds up. Summer has warned me that if I do blatantly speak out against him like that, then he'll get his revenge by assigning me total shit work. Granted, he has nothing at all to do with I'm assigned anyway (that's Brian, thank gawd), but he can pull the proper strings if he so desires. It's not dissimilar to what happened to Elizabeth, though it was a different higher-up who had a grudge against her. If that does happen, and if we can make some kind of case for it, it might give Brian, Leigh and I the leverage we need to get the fuck out of the department altogether. Of course, I'm speculating. But that's Monday. Today I have a shitload of errands to run, including possibly taking the car to the garage, and tomorrow I'm going to work to make sure everything that needs to be done for Monday, is. Since there's no telling how long I might be gone. Goddamnit, I'm going to be responsible if it kills me. Guess I haven't completely overcome it yet...
1:50pm
I also have a new monitor.
Yeah, I splurged. Bite me.
Books. It's mostly books. Damn, I have a lot of books. Time to purge...
These next few days are going to suck. Vicodin to the rescue...? The dentist's office's ad in the yellow pages, thankfully, contains the three magic words: "Nitrous Oxide Sedation." Oh, good. Oblivion, or at least a little closer to it. That's what I want. For all the dental work I've had done (a number of fillings over the years), never once has nitrous been used. They always just stuck the needle straight into the gums and pumped 'em full of novocaine. But I was completely aware the whole time. That's bad. No more of that.
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Friday, 15 October 1999 (leaders and followers) 7:25am I didn't get out of work until well after 7pm last night, so the subway lured me once again. Surely, this late in the evening...? The crowd was fairly thin, and if there were any delays they weren't telling us, so I hopped on the L. Now, while waiting on the platform I'd noticed an old guy, at least in his seventies, talking to himself. Nothing unusual in this city, on public transportation or otherwise. Sometimes while walking through less than pleasant parts of town, I've considered talking to myself as a means of camoflauge. (Punctuated with the occasional facial twitch and lots of "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" for good measure.) One is much less likely to be considered a target if one is considered crazy. Anyway, he got onto the same car as I did, and was sitting across the aisle from me, though I was sitting next to the window. (Finishing up Poppy Z. Brite's Exquisite Corpse. Absolutely brilliant book. Though a few parts made me wince, I didn't think it was "over the top" like so many people have said. I have no idea what that says about me.) Most people gave him a fair wide berth, until an intrepid little old Asian lady decided that an empty seat is an empty seat, next to a madly gibbering old white man or not. I had my headphones on, and after a while I turned the volume down to see if I could hear him. Indeed I could; waving around small bottle in a brown paper bag for emphasis, he was going on and on to the woman about a corpse which may or may have ever existed in this world: "The rats were eating him alive. Dead. The guy was lying on the beach, dead, and the rats were pouring all over him, eating him." Over and over. Whether this was something that he'd once seen in real life, perhaps in a war, or a product of whatever mental illness was eating his brain alive, I couldn't say. When the seat next to me opened up, the woman took advantage of the opportunity and moved over to my side. He continued talking at her, but it was much easier now for her to ignore him, even though her outward expression never changed. He seemed to grow tired of her, and was mostly quiet for a few minutes. Now and then he held up his bottle as in a toast, said "United States Army" (hence my war theory) and took a swig. Then his mood changed somewhat. He started making something resembling clubbing or stabbing motions with the bottle—although he didn't appear to have the strength to twist off the cap, let alone hurt someone—and saying "Dirty faggot, I'll kill you! Dirty faggot. I'll kill you, I mean it, I'll kill you." Remarkably, he was not talking to me, such an obvious fag with my faggy beret with the bangs sticking out just right (don't think I didn't primp for more than a few minutes to get that just right) and eyeliner and nail polish. Maybe six feet away, and he didn't seem to realize I was there. Instead, he was focused on a woman in the other half of the car, the seats facing us. She was probably in her mid-fifties, with long white hair tied in a ponytail, wearing jogging clothes and no makeup. Not exactly one of the Andrews Sisters, but definitely a woman and not within the classic definition of "faggot." The guy was serious—she was "a dirty faggot sonofabitch," and he intended to kill her—but he was also obviously very harmless. Most of the other people on the train, including the woman, seemed to be on the verge of laughter. Her and I exchanged a glance, in which I clearly read: Why is talking to me, of all people? He even got up and shambled over to her, still calling her a faggot. She pointed out that no, she is in fact not a faggot. She didn't actually point out that she was a woman, simply that she was not a faggot. In what I'm guessing was a rare moment of lucidity, he actually responded, "You're not a faggot?" He sounded very skeptical. Surely she was a faggot, a dirty faggot, and he'd kill the faggot, he meant it, he'd kill them all... Instead of returning to his seat, he stood in the doorway of the train. (By the way, a few weeks back when I suggested sitting in the stairwell? I was kinda vague. I meant the corner stairwell in the older Muni trains, the one door that never opens going in a certain direction, next to where the driver would be if the train was moving in the opposite direction. Do not sit in front of a door that actually opens and closes during the trip; that's just plain rude.) I've never understood how people with no grasp on reality can know which stop is theirs, but he seemed to. The homing instinct is strong, I suppose. After he left, those of who were still on board, let out a collective sigh of relief mixed with bemused chuckling. What the fuck had that been about? I commented aloud my surprise that he didn't call me, and that got a good laugh. "What's this city coming to?"
Of course, I do realize that I've gotten lucky. There are people out there who, when
they say they want to kill faggots, they follow through, and no amount of definition quibbling
from me ("Well, you see, I'm not homosexual, I'm transsexual") is
going to make a difference...
i know what you are running to 10:36am Dana's not well, not well at all, thanks to a company which (like most these days) doesn't give a damn about the health or working environment of their employees. Someday we're going to look back at modern offices with the same kind of horror with which now view Upton Sinclair's The Jungle. And why are things getting so bad? Because money's involved, of course. The money of people who don't have to work in the disease-invested holes from which they profit.
What I said yesterday about decent people getting what they deserve?
Elizabeth's an even rarer case than I'd suspected, because Dana's
once of the nicest people I know, and this is the last thing
in the world that should be happening to her...
I wasn't at Shrine for five minutes before I was spotted and latched onto; it was a friend of Lee's, actually, whom I'd met in Bolinas that night back in August. He recognized me right away, though I probably wouldn't have given him much thought were I left up to my own devices. I wonder if anyone ever thinks I'm snubbing or willfully ignoring them; that's almost never the case. I'm just not as good with faces as I should be. He mostly talked about having recently broken up with his girlfriend of two and a half years. She had also been at Lee's that night, and as I recall, kept staring at me. When return her gaze, she of course would always quickly look away. In any event, there'd been some deception and betrayal involving his now former best friend. Bad stuff indeed. At one point he lifted up his shirt and showed me his recent experiment in home scarrification, from Thursday night: what was essentially the shape of star around his left breast, with his Ex's name carved in the middle. Hey, whatever helps you cope. Imani was there in full shutterbug mode, and pulled me into a few pictures. I declined an offer to go to Sparky's with her and some other people, partially because I really need to get some sleep tonight and and partially because one of the other people is someone whom I genuinely dislike. There aren't many in the scene, but this person qualifies. Sara also made a surprise appearance. (I sure wasn't expecting her, nor was Gahan, who said that she still owed him a day of slavery. He explained the transactions leading up to that point, and yeah, that's sure what it sounds like she owes him.) She's quite happy in her new place in Alameda, and is even glad she has a roommate. Still haven't figured that one out. Saw a bit of old-fashioned homosexuality, something which has seemed to be to be lacking in the local goff scene. It was the lead singer of the band which performed that night, and someone whom I assumed was his boyfriend. Call me naive if you will. I did finally get to dance for real, something I haven't done in months. It felt nice, really nice...I've missed it... Lots of compliments on the beret. (Even when I would confess that the main reason for me to wear it is to cover my roots.) The general consesus seems to be that it works very well on me. Which is an extremely good thing, but I still can't wait to be able to walk around without it on and not feel completely self-conscious about my very noticeable brown roots. All in good time...
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Thursday, 14 October 1999 (near wild heaven) 10:05am Sometimes, the City bitch-slaps you and there ain't a whole hell of a lot you can do about it. Last night, I got out of the office too late to catch the 71 at the foot of Market as usual. Generally by that time the train will be starting to lighten up, so I took the plunge. A couple stops down the line, they announced that there were two trains stalled ahead of us at two different stations. They were being taken out of commission, but that it would be very slow going. I had a seat, so in theory I could have just read or tried to sleep. But the train was already full, and while I'm not claustrophobic there's a lot to be said for not being stuck in a crowded, unmoving subway car if it can be avoided. The 71 was still running, it was just stopping further up Market Street and not quite as frequently. It seemed the much better option, though. So I exited the train (I didn't look back, but I'm sure there was a mad rush for my seat) just as an inbound train was arriving. Perfect! It would take me almost exactly to the 71's current stop. Not that I minded the walking, but I was kinda in a hurry to get home. Yeah, sure, who isn't? I entered the inbound train just as they announced that there was an inbound delay as well. Barely three stations to go, and there was a delay. Fuck it. Both my experience and more than a few studies have shown that it's just faster to walk in these cases. Upstairs, then. Maybe it's because I'm seldom at Fourth and Market at that time in the evening, but it seemed a bit more chaotic than usual. Or maybe it was just me, since I was switching into battle mode, Me Vs. Getting From Point A to Point B, The Unending Grudge Match. There's definitely something odd about that stretch of Market, because I always seem to run into people I know. Lo and behold, there was Elizabeth, whom I haven't seen or heard from since she quit/was forced out a couple months back. Seems she has a new job and is very happy, much happier than she ever was here. That was gratifying to hear, since she'd been quite miserable and genuinely persecuted before. As it happens, a few weeks back I'd been trying to get in touch with her; she left before Maddy arrived, and we'd talked a lot about the impending visit, for she'd been in a similar situation once. So I was practically boucning as I told her about how incredibly wonderful being with Madeline was. It was probably the kind of display which would have generated an "Awwwww!" or a "You're such a girl!" out of Laurel, but that's okay.
In any event, seeing Elizabeth and her being so happy helped to
redeem what was on otherwise questionable evening. It's nice to know the decent
people like her get what they deserve once in a while.
Darkness isn't the issue, and I'm using matches, but it's still damn
good advice.
Reminder to myself: finish your Amethyst submission, damnit!
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Wednesday, 13 October 1999 (is this what you wanted) 5:02am In spite of some moments yesterday when I was feeling inspired towards performance art, razor touched skin just now for the first time since last Thursday morning, having not shaved after getting zapped. Most all of the swelling has gone now, and the redness is a lingering mottling which will likely stick around for a few days. There's definite regrowth on the cheeks, though the discoloring makes it hard to judge. And, of course, the upper lip. The good ol' upper lip. The remaining redness is most prominent there, though the swelling is mostly gone (at its worst, it resembles a harelip), and when the redness finally goes away the regrowth will be juuuuuuuuuuust prominent enough to cause a shadow. I should go see Phil again on Saturday. But I don't think I'm going to. Aside from having promised Tania I'd go out with her that night (and I'm getting tired of having to turn people down), I'm sick of it for now. I don't want to think about it anymore. There's too many other things which I can't ignore, and on those I must focus...
I spoke to her last night, before going to sleep. We're going to make it,
no matter what.
When I step back and really look at it, I'm making a lot of waves here. Or I'm trying to
get greased, depending on your preferred metaphor.
I went to lunch with Summer today, and once again the the SPCA had cages set up in the Evil Levi Plaza. There was another Mary-esque kitten, possibly the same one as before. According to the card on her cage, her name is Annie, and she's two months and two weeks old. Domestic shorthair—"tuxedo cat," my ass. Housebroken and fixed (at two months?), and a real talker. Of course, she was probably terrified. Can't do it, though. Not yet. Even if I wasn't going to be gone for almost a week at the end of the month, I still haven't worked out the details with my landlords. Ironically, as someone was walking away from the cages I heard them say, "I'll have to ask my landlady. We're not supposed to have pets." I was tempted to tell her to bring a lawyer along just in case.
Above Annie was an actual cat, not a kitten, the only one displayed. A two
year-old Balinese named Galaxy. Even louder, though he's had a bit more practice.
While I wouldn't get a male cat (because I'm sexist), I've actually given some
thought to getting a cat rather than a kitten. Seems to me that a cat needing
a home has a much harder time of it than a kitten, not to mention I've always
preferred mature cats. Maybe it's because they tend to be a bit mellower,
and the peronalities are in place. Then again, that was one of the reasons
I was so hesitant to agree to take my brother's cat. (It occurs to me,
maybe that's one of the reasons he seems unhappy with me now.) At least
with a kitten, you can guide them to a slight degree. Very slight, but
it's there. I'd like to think I did something right with Mary, anyway.
It was not something I'd expected, her to be concerned about my feelings in something like this. Seems like it's the first time that anyone has given a damn. As my brother said way back in January, "We're not going to take sides." There's your warm family support in a time of personal crisis.
I told her that I didn't mind, of course, and in this case it's very true.
If she wants to talk to my father, that's fine by me. She'll probably
be seeing him this weekend in Fresno. There's certainly
no doubt in my mind that he won't take sides.
It is my understanding that due to all the functionality of Outlook on the meeting schedule side, that everyone must have access to Outlook and that we were moving to Outlook as a company standard per executive management directive.
Oh, I'm not going to be scared off by an "executive management directive." Not yet.
Not when three quarters of this department are Mac users, and I just discovered
they don't use Outlook anyway. But I'm through with it for today.
After a years of regarding it with a mixture of apathy and
apprehension, I'm think I'm beginning to appreciate Halloween.
It kicks ass. This one is surely going to be my best ever,
since I'll be spending it with the woman I love, and she knows
how to do it right.
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Tuesday, 12 October 1999 (every waking hour) 9:41am The mythical "it" did not end up happening: me walking to work. It's a thought which has been on my mind for a while now, and seems to be the only option left to get my ass out of the numerous chairs into which it constantly finds itself planted. I live about ten miles away, and I reckon it would be a three hour walk, give or take. The quickest route would be from my place to Haight, Haight to Market, then Market to Embarcadero. That's about as staight a line is possible without going over too many gnarly hills. Not that the hills would be bad, and they'd certainly make it a better workout, but one thing at a time. I need something like this, though. Too much bad and ugly stuff has backed up into my system, and I need to release it. Exercise and lots of it is usually the only way to get it out. If I can't save my soul...
It will, of course, require leaving early, by no later than 6am. I used to be good at that. I used to
be able to leave by 3:45am. I wish I knew what happened.
And just to make it a perfect evening? The Ex is stopping by later.
My mom says that just because I don't believe in her god, that doesn't mean he
doesn't love me. I suppose it also follows that he can punish me, too.
The vindictive prick. I should really find my own god that loves her even
though she doesn't believe in it, and I can have it beat up her god. Just
because she doesn't believe in my god, it doesn't mean it can't kick
her god's ass.
Oh well. Such is life.
the medication is wearing off
gonna hurt not a little, a lot
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12:26pm Only after walking for a half hour to get to the Water Department did I discover they're closed because it's Genocide Day. Fuck. Oh well, at least I got some exercise out of it. Which, judging by the overall physical condition of the tourists around Union Square, is something this country is in desperate need of. 1:11pm I just put in an official request to switch from Outlook to Pegasus, and I'm told an IS technician will be contacting me shortly.
This should be fun.
It's true. He'd gotten wind of some unpleasant things I'd said about Outlook on an internal mailing list (mostly to the effect that program sucks ass and I resent being forced to use it), and came over to my cubicle to find out why I felt the way that I did. It was astonishing: he was acting like he couldn't understand why anyone would have issues with Outlook, and denied that it's a system resource hog. The whole exchange (a little pun for you techies) was very unnerving. Frankly, I think his comment that I didn't have to use Outlook was meant simply to contradict my reference to the forced migration some months back, when we were all switched over and not given any choice in the matter. Very much my mom's method of debate: whatever they say, tell them they're wrong. I half expected him to say I'm "skewed."
Anyway, just now the technician said that he'd look into it, and that he'd talk
to Trevor to find out the exact procedure. If he ends up saying no, then I'll
drag the head of IS into it. I really don't want to, but my dander's up,
and I might as well use it while I got it.
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