The cat in the bag...

Or out of the bag as the case may be.

Seems not only does Charlie Browne know about this little blog of mine, but he's been reading it since effing October.

Excuse me, do you have a towel for the egg on my face?

Oh, and as usual, I have plenty of expounding to do, all of it about dear ol' Charlie Browne and giving in.

It's been awesome. And a relief. Total, fucking relief.

A few happy thoughts for Stellan

The explanation isn't important.
And you can get all you want here.

But think a few happy thoughts for this little boy, if, you know, you're so inclined.

Thanks,
J

My Don't-Give-A-Fuck

(This will make a little more since if you read this, and maybe this.)

Has turned into downright mutiny.

I-don't-wanna, I-ain't-gonna, You-can't-make-me, Just-fire-me-already, Caine-style M.U.T.I.N.Y.

We got a game plan e-mail today. I have to be at work two hours earlier than usual on Monday, at freaking 8:30 in the morning on Tuesday and Wednesday, ad then at 2 "until further notice."

The 8:30 days are for training purposes. Watch me and my subversion. Just you watch.

I don't want to "learn" a "new" way of doing things, just so we can revert back to the old in six to eight weeks. I don't want to listen to that balding bitch-witch babble on and on about inconsequential, bureaucratic bullshit at 8:30 in the effing morning for four effing hours.

I have never felt such animosity for a job, or a boss, in my life.

Urg, grr, grumble, piss, moan, dig in the heels, and then beat the fists on the floor.

(And no, I can't just quit and move back to Houston tomorrow. I have a freaking lease.)
(did I mention I'm moving back in with my parents in August. Parents and batshit-fucking insane sister. Joy and rapture.)

The saddest thing to happen since last January.

She died.

She was awesome, a fantastic actress with a great voice. She was the good-looking sister.

And now she's dead.

I haven't been this sad since he died.

excuse me while I go cry on the inside. Because I'm at work.

Total agreement

I never thought I'd see the day...

Loathe as I am to admit, I agree with this guy.

Why is it okay to take the money and run? Take my money and run to a house in the Hamptons?

Why don't more people care, have respect for those they serve?

Oh, yes, high-rise Corporate America, I'm talking to you. You serve your stockholders, and now that you're operating on government funds, you serve me.

Where's your humility? Where's your compassion? Where's your "give a fuck?"

Huh?

Things I could be doing

Like:

Finishing the count...4 blog drafts waiting to see the light of day
Laundry
Playing with Miss Daisy
Working of Michelle's blanket - that baby could be here any second!
Working on Lori's blanket - but I have until May
Working on Erika's blanket - I have 'til may on that one too
Looking for a Job - urg, grr, gag, vomit.
Looking for a new apartment - see above... and I have until next January
Cleaning my current apartment

Things I'm not doing out of sheer laziness/lack of significant motivation/lack of proper yarn/my deeply embedded procrastinatory tendencies:

(see above)

Fiscal Responsibilty

Are you kidding me?

Are you kidding me with this shit?

Honestly people. Honestly!

How much money do you need? How many cars, houses, jets, country club memberships, dominatrices do you have to have?!

The size of the planet.

I read this blog. Don't remember how I came across it or why I'm still reading it. I don't jive or relate to the woman in any fashion whatsoever. I just got sucked in.

But that's another story for another day.


Yesterday she posted a note about this family. My morbid curiosity and the fact that they were/are from Texas (my old, if slightly large, stomping grounds) bade me visit and peruse.

Turns out this guy, David, went to my high school. He graduated three years before I ever set foot in the place, but... weird.

Kelly lives in freaking Arkansas. She blogged about this family that lives in Texas. I'm in deep southern Louisiana (almost the swamps), and I read her blog for absolutely no reason at all-anymore. She just happens to blog about the death of a man who attended my high school and whose funeral at least a few of my former colleagues (have I mentioned I once taught at my high school? Yes, yes, another story for another time...) attended.

It really is a small world after all.

My Give-a-fuck

Six months ago, if you had asked me how excited I was about The Big Move, I could not have vocalized an answer. Just nod and smile in overwhelming exhilaration.

Ask me that today, or maybe tomorrow, and I might shrug my shoulders. Meh.

And that makes me so very, very angry.

Hustle and bustle saturate my work environment. The shelves are nearly bare and overfilled boxes abound. In two weeks, and at the very most by this time next month, we (my co-hortsworkers and I) will be livin' it up in the new digs, with literally thousands of brand new, spine unbroken, possibly shiny, fresh-from-the-publisher books around every corner, and enough space so that I never have to see, hear or smell the Train Wreck.

Eric is practically drooling at the thought of this place and that guy doesn't get excited about anything. Okay, anything of remote importance.

Gregk, were he not so mired with the actually moving mudanities, would be shivering he tight little ass off in anticipation.

Bill can't wait, neither can Crystal, or Whitney.

But try as I might, I can't give a shit. I've dug deep, too. I really worked at it. But since all this crap hit the fan, I've been too busy trying to pry the eight inch serrated blade out of my spine to care about much else.

There are work place politics, and then there's my job. See, when they can't fire you, they have to get very creative in how they make you leave. And by creative I mean dirty, underhanded, two-faced, backstabbing techniques and slight of hand. And just the slightest little thing, sometimes one may not even know what one did, can set off a chain reaction that would make Mount St. Helens look like a fucking sneeze.

See, I don't know how this got started. Okay, I do know. But it's not really important anymore. It's happened. It's over.

And I just don't give a fuck.

sigh.