So it's been for-freaking-ever since I've posted or even checked this damn thing. Now far too enamorate of "myspace" to do any good (www.blog.myspace.com/eakthemonkey) blogging on multiple places.
Plus I'm kind of lame, anyway.
I no longer want a sugar daddy, but I did go fishing. And even caught one. And had thumb surgery. And two months off work. Which helped me realize I fucking loathe working here. Most of the time. There are perks (quick internet access) and pluses (close proximity to Rasputin's and Target and PetSmart) but mostly this shit is just depressing.
De. Press. Ing.
As a former idealist, this was just about the worst place to get a job if I had any desire to reinvigorate the idealism.
Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if everyone cared more.
Maybe I would.
Who knows.
Maybe I'm just sick of lawyers who get paid lots of money and don't do shit.
And hypocrites.
Lord.
I can't believe I'm back at work. It is still slightly surreal... like if I woke up and had to go to hell one day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
I Need a Sugar Daddy and a Vacation from Myself...
Word.
Sometimes I just need a vacation from my life-- from the boyfriend, the friends, the work, the work, the blame, the shame, the kittens...
You know, sometimes I just want to go and live a different life. Not forever, just for a couple weeks or maybe a month or two. Different friends, different lover, different job, different problems, different stress... just different. I'm sick of my problems; sick of worrying about whether or not someone else is doing thier job, sick of work...
Sick of elipses...
Ha.
Yeah, I'm sick of myself. I'm tired of all the complaints. I'm tired of the rusty stunted cogs in this here wheel I work for. I'm tired of having to lower my expectations and blah, blah, blah. I'm tired of wondering how my life would be different, if only... I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of debt and drugs and alcohol and smoking and not smoking and my friends who seem not to really give a shit at all, tired of being the youngest and the least assured.
I'm just tired.
Sometimes I just need a vacation from my life-- from the boyfriend, the friends, the work, the work, the blame, the shame, the kittens...
You know, sometimes I just want to go and live a different life. Not forever, just for a couple weeks or maybe a month or two. Different friends, different lover, different job, different problems, different stress... just different. I'm sick of my problems; sick of worrying about whether or not someone else is doing thier job, sick of work...
Sick of elipses...
Ha.
Yeah, I'm sick of myself. I'm tired of all the complaints. I'm tired of the rusty stunted cogs in this here wheel I work for. I'm tired of having to lower my expectations and blah, blah, blah. I'm tired of wondering how my life would be different, if only... I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of debt and drugs and alcohol and smoking and not smoking and my friends who seem not to really give a shit at all, tired of being the youngest and the least assured.
I'm just tired.
Friday, February 18, 2005
I just don't know what I'm after... ain't that the truth...
The boys are away and the cats will play... no really.. not really...
Out tonight. L and I caught some drinks at the Piano Bar and wandered around Oakland with Ron (Righteous Omniscient Neurotic) and that was fun. So then we came home and acted like it was a slumber party.
Who can blame us? The boys are fishing. They are gone. Tomorrow night we are going into the City to go dancing. That should be fun. Maybe sublounge, maybe luna lounge, maybe somewhere completely different.
I'm so glad that in all of these years L & I have remained friends. She said, put that in your poetry and smoke it and I have ever since then... years now... and I love it. As much as I complain, I'm not sure I would change my life. Maybe my house, but not my life.
97%.
Here is a poem. For all the non existent audiences of the world...
I am 16 going on 17…
before, when things were simpler, I was
unaware that change really meant different
and things really were scintillating
beyond whatever it was I really believed.
Before,
when things were
littler
in scope and specter
I watched what meant truth like
fair was a reality you could finger and jerk
I try and explain things three ways.
This is what I see of me.
What you see, this is what you have.
What you take.
Which, by take, I mean carry
way into the deepest substratum
beyond
and before
and within
and holding
and scolding
and smoldering
until every glance is clear.
02/18/2005
The boys are away and the cats will play... no really.. not really...
Out tonight. L and I caught some drinks at the Piano Bar and wandered around Oakland with Ron (Righteous Omniscient Neurotic) and that was fun. So then we came home and acted like it was a slumber party.
Who can blame us? The boys are fishing. They are gone. Tomorrow night we are going into the City to go dancing. That should be fun. Maybe sublounge, maybe luna lounge, maybe somewhere completely different.
I'm so glad that in all of these years L & I have remained friends. She said, put that in your poetry and smoke it and I have ever since then... years now... and I love it. As much as I complain, I'm not sure I would change my life. Maybe my house, but not my life.
97%.
Here is a poem. For all the non existent audiences of the world...
I am 16 going on 17…
before, when things were simpler, I was
unaware that change really meant different
and things really were scintillating
beyond whatever it was I really believed.
Before,
when things were
littler
in scope and specter
I watched what meant truth like
fair was a reality you could finger and jerk
I try and explain things three ways.
This is what I see of me.
What you see, this is what you have.
What you take.
Which, by take, I mean carry
way into the deepest substratum
beyond
and before
and within
and holding
and scolding
and smoldering
until every glance is clear.
02/18/2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
I am the LAMEST person ALIVE.
Or at least the clumsiest.
So far today I've spilled on myself or otherwise dirtied my clothes, oh, five times. No, three times.
First, I dropped a banana. The banana landed in the pot. The pot was full of soapy water and old spaghetti. The water splashed all over my shirt. Luckily none of the spaghetti found its way onto my white shirt, but the water was s-t-i-n-k-y for sure. And so I had to febreeze myself once I arrived at work.
The banana was just the beginning. I've lived with myself for twenty four years and still don't recognize the signs of impending klutz-o-matic behavior.
Once at work, I spilled coffee all over the front of my nice white shirt (which smelled quite delicious, thanks to the febreeze) and onto my pants. Fearing for my white shirt, as it is the only long-sleeved white shirt I even own, I rinsed the sleeves and front under water. Lucky for me I had a tank top underneath the shirt or else I would have been walking around with coffee spots. So as I'm trying to save this shirt, which I don't really like in the first place because it is a little too big and a little old, I splash bleach onto my pants.
The pants are a different story. I like the pants. The pants are nice. They are gray with a lilac pinstripe. They are from Gap. (Go figure. I love my GapCard a little too much.) They are one of the few pairs of pants I own that I can wear to work, especially after losing 40+ lbs and having to replace almost my whole wardrobe with a few measly dollars. (Hence, the love of the GapCard. A little too much.)
So now I've ruined my pants, defrocked myself of the shirt, and dropped a banana.
Not to mention the banging of the forehead on the shelf in the bathroom prior to all of this activity... another thing I dislike about the apartment... but... of course... it's a lengthy list...
Some days I take the cake.
I just want to go home.
Or shopping.
Terrible, terrible.
And LAME!!!
Word.
So far today I've spilled on myself or otherwise dirtied my clothes, oh, five times. No, three times.
First, I dropped a banana. The banana landed in the pot. The pot was full of soapy water and old spaghetti. The water splashed all over my shirt. Luckily none of the spaghetti found its way onto my white shirt, but the water was s-t-i-n-k-y for sure. And so I had to febreeze myself once I arrived at work.
The banana was just the beginning. I've lived with myself for twenty four years and still don't recognize the signs of impending klutz-o-matic behavior.
Once at work, I spilled coffee all over the front of my nice white shirt (which smelled quite delicious, thanks to the febreeze) and onto my pants. Fearing for my white shirt, as it is the only long-sleeved white shirt I even own, I rinsed the sleeves and front under water. Lucky for me I had a tank top underneath the shirt or else I would have been walking around with coffee spots. So as I'm trying to save this shirt, which I don't really like in the first place because it is a little too big and a little old, I splash bleach onto my pants.
The pants are a different story. I like the pants. The pants are nice. They are gray with a lilac pinstripe. They are from Gap. (Go figure. I love my GapCard a little too much.) They are one of the few pairs of pants I own that I can wear to work, especially after losing 40+ lbs and having to replace almost my whole wardrobe with a few measly dollars. (Hence, the love of the GapCard. A little too much.)
So now I've ruined my pants, defrocked myself of the shirt, and dropped a banana.
Not to mention the banging of the forehead on the shelf in the bathroom prior to all of this activity... another thing I dislike about the apartment... but... of course... it's a lengthy list...
Some days I take the cake.
I just want to go home.
Or shopping.
Terrible, terrible.
And LAME!!!
Word.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
The same day, over again...
That's what DA should stand for. Dumb Asses. Because they pretty much run around with thier heads up thier asses, it seems.
Okay, okay, maybe that's a little harsh. Not all of them are idiots, semi-useless, or overpaid litagators. Some of them-- many of them-- do the job and do it well. But man... those few stupidheads really make me want to scream.
Take, for example, someone I'll call Prima. As in, Prima Donna. Because she is. But. Back to the example. The office she "habitates" is, well... messier than the room I kept when I was sixteen. And since only my family knows how that looked... disaster area is a nice term. While not quite on the level of the tsunami disaster... well... it's pretty damn close. Files, papers, stacks of shit, decomposing orange peels, empty soda cans, half-filled coffee cups developing mold, used tissues, stale chips, bowls, plates, forks, knives, big garbage bags full of clothes, boxes full of shit she'll never need again, stacks of old newspapers, muffin wrappers...
Two weeks ago I slipped and nearly killed myself because of the shit all over the floor. So none of us here in the office venture into HER office very often. Mainly because we value our lives and it is not safe in there. I've twisted my ankle in her office, bruised my leg, smacked my knee, hit my funny bone, and cracked my forehead-- and I'm clumsy, but I'm not THAT clumsy. I know how to balance, at least, and I swear the magnetic field of crap in her office effects the gravitational pull. Obviously I'm no scientist but good lord... danger! danger will robinson!
If that isn't bad enough, she loses files and referrals CONSTANTLY and expects me to find them-- and acts like shes organized!! Arg.
Enough about the dumb asses... I'm tired on thinking about them. I'm tired of working for them. I wish there was a transfer here soon. Our other office seems to get all of the new blood while we are stuck with all the rejects. The head of the office has taken over the library and made it his office, leaving us poor secretaries with no where to eat lunch or (in my case) do homework. And then there's Brandon, who acts like he is in third grade, hiding my keys and messing with my desk. Sometimes I expect him to dip my pigtails into an inkwell... But I was supposed to stop being annoyed by them. It is quite difficult...
I've realized that lately I am just angry and mean almost all the time. I don't know if it is stress from holding in all my life annoyances, my money issues, or what... I get annoyed quite easily and want to smack many upside thier little beady heads. I think some of it comes from my annoyance with N--
Here's the thing. I've got no one to complain to but the bandwidth of the internet, so here goes... and even if he did happen upon it... well... it's truth so whatever. Complaining to empty air is probably more appreciated than complaining in his ear... that never goes over very well.
So. Here goes for real:
Reasons I Wish We'd Never Moved... or... Things I Miss About My Old Apartment
1. The Shower.
See, here's the thing. Our new shower is one of those that encircle rather than have full spray action. I hate those kind. When I was a kid, I loved them. They had one at our local swimming pool (we called it the Ditch Pool because it was at the end of a gravel road, next to this huge ditch that we played Cowboys and Indians in... anyway). When I was a kid I'd stand in the middle of the circle, pretending I was being held hostage by aliens or some kind of Libyan army (blame Back to the Future for that one) and that was my prison. If I hit any of the waterspray I was dead. This was also around the same era of pulling on the swimsuit so that it filled with a pocket of air. Not exactly the most discerning when it came to showers, at least, not at that age. Now-- little pickier. Our old shower head was brand new, and the bathtub had just been replaced. The bathtub in our new apartment was black when we looked at the place the first time, and only with hours of scrubbing and bleaching did it return to white. It's one of the tin sounding, enamel covered tubs that sucks in mold like a vacuum sucks in dirt. And the tracks of the shower door are a little, well... worn would be a nice way to put it.
2. The Water Heater
Oh, jeez. Feel like I'm living in Colorado again. Mostly the water change is gradual from cold to hot and back again... unless someone is doing laundry. In our old apartment we shared a water heater with one other apartment... not eleven.
3. The Laundry Room
I admit it, we were spoiled with our $1.25 laundry... but $2.50!! That's practically a crime. And there are eleven people/ 7 units trying to use one machine versus three other units/ 4 people at the old house. And our landlord almost never gets her laundry out on time. I'm a snot, and I'll take that shit right out. Laundry is NOT to be clogged!
4. The Windows, the windows, the second story windows...
Okay, so this is a biggie. We had these great windows in our old apartment-- double pane, energy efficient-- you know, the works. They were put in right before we moved there. They kept sound in and out, and better than that-- they kept heat and cool in and out. Now we've got these rickety slat windows on half the house, and on the other half are single pane, unopenable windows. They let everything into the house-- noise, air, sound, smoke, pollen-- you name it, it's on my floor or in my livingroom.
5. Living room/ bar
Another biggie-- arg. Our living room is the width of my pinky now, and the length is about the same as the width of the old apartment. The bugger I love and live with STILL hasn't set up the stereo and so I am forced to listen to music using the DVD player and the TV. Trust me. This does not sound good. In fact, it sounds, um, bad. And I miss my bar. Someplace to eat, to drink, to throw mail on and then forget about it... Yeah. I miss it.
6. Oh, my kitchen. My beautiful, beautiful kitchen that is no longer mine.
A) Counterspace
B) Big refrigarator
C) Ice maker
D) Dishwasher
E) Big self-cleaning oven W/ a lovely stove-range that is large, large, large
7. Oh, the list goes on and on...
I'm tired of complaining. I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of work, I'm tired of incompetence, I'm tired of feeling... I'm just freaking DONE with it all... until, of course, tomorrow when I wake up and start the same day over again.
Okay, okay, maybe that's a little harsh. Not all of them are idiots, semi-useless, or overpaid litagators. Some of them-- many of them-- do the job and do it well. But man... those few stupidheads really make me want to scream.
Take, for example, someone I'll call Prima. As in, Prima Donna. Because she is. But. Back to the example. The office she "habitates" is, well... messier than the room I kept when I was sixteen. And since only my family knows how that looked... disaster area is a nice term. While not quite on the level of the tsunami disaster... well... it's pretty damn close. Files, papers, stacks of shit, decomposing orange peels, empty soda cans, half-filled coffee cups developing mold, used tissues, stale chips, bowls, plates, forks, knives, big garbage bags full of clothes, boxes full of shit she'll never need again, stacks of old newspapers, muffin wrappers...
Two weeks ago I slipped and nearly killed myself because of the shit all over the floor. So none of us here in the office venture into HER office very often. Mainly because we value our lives and it is not safe in there. I've twisted my ankle in her office, bruised my leg, smacked my knee, hit my funny bone, and cracked my forehead-- and I'm clumsy, but I'm not THAT clumsy. I know how to balance, at least, and I swear the magnetic field of crap in her office effects the gravitational pull. Obviously I'm no scientist but good lord... danger! danger will robinson!
If that isn't bad enough, she loses files and referrals CONSTANTLY and expects me to find them-- and acts like shes organized!! Arg.
Enough about the dumb asses... I'm tired on thinking about them. I'm tired of working for them. I wish there was a transfer here soon. Our other office seems to get all of the new blood while we are stuck with all the rejects. The head of the office has taken over the library and made it his office, leaving us poor secretaries with no where to eat lunch or (in my case) do homework. And then there's Brandon, who acts like he is in third grade, hiding my keys and messing with my desk. Sometimes I expect him to dip my pigtails into an inkwell... But I was supposed to stop being annoyed by them. It is quite difficult...
I've realized that lately I am just angry and mean almost all the time. I don't know if it is stress from holding in all my life annoyances, my money issues, or what... I get annoyed quite easily and want to smack many upside thier little beady heads. I think some of it comes from my annoyance with N--
Here's the thing. I've got no one to complain to but the bandwidth of the internet, so here goes... and even if he did happen upon it... well... it's truth so whatever. Complaining to empty air is probably more appreciated than complaining in his ear... that never goes over very well.
So. Here goes for real:
Reasons I Wish We'd Never Moved... or... Things I Miss About My Old Apartment
1. The Shower.
See, here's the thing. Our new shower is one of those that encircle rather than have full spray action. I hate those kind. When I was a kid, I loved them. They had one at our local swimming pool (we called it the Ditch Pool because it was at the end of a gravel road, next to this huge ditch that we played Cowboys and Indians in... anyway). When I was a kid I'd stand in the middle of the circle, pretending I was being held hostage by aliens or some kind of Libyan army (blame Back to the Future for that one) and that was my prison. If I hit any of the waterspray I was dead. This was also around the same era of pulling on the swimsuit so that it filled with a pocket of air. Not exactly the most discerning when it came to showers, at least, not at that age. Now-- little pickier. Our old shower head was brand new, and the bathtub had just been replaced. The bathtub in our new apartment was black when we looked at the place the first time, and only with hours of scrubbing and bleaching did it return to white. It's one of the tin sounding, enamel covered tubs that sucks in mold like a vacuum sucks in dirt. And the tracks of the shower door are a little, well... worn would be a nice way to put it.
2. The Water Heater
Oh, jeez. Feel like I'm living in Colorado again. Mostly the water change is gradual from cold to hot and back again... unless someone is doing laundry. In our old apartment we shared a water heater with one other apartment... not eleven.
3. The Laundry Room
I admit it, we were spoiled with our $1.25 laundry... but $2.50!! That's practically a crime. And there are eleven people/ 7 units trying to use one machine versus three other units/ 4 people at the old house. And our landlord almost never gets her laundry out on time. I'm a snot, and I'll take that shit right out. Laundry is NOT to be clogged!
4. The Windows, the windows, the second story windows...
Okay, so this is a biggie. We had these great windows in our old apartment-- double pane, energy efficient-- you know, the works. They were put in right before we moved there. They kept sound in and out, and better than that-- they kept heat and cool in and out. Now we've got these rickety slat windows on half the house, and on the other half are single pane, unopenable windows. They let everything into the house-- noise, air, sound, smoke, pollen-- you name it, it's on my floor or in my livingroom.
5. Living room/ bar
Another biggie-- arg. Our living room is the width of my pinky now, and the length is about the same as the width of the old apartment. The bugger I love and live with STILL hasn't set up the stereo and so I am forced to listen to music using the DVD player and the TV. Trust me. This does not sound good. In fact, it sounds, um, bad. And I miss my bar. Someplace to eat, to drink, to throw mail on and then forget about it... Yeah. I miss it.
6. Oh, my kitchen. My beautiful, beautiful kitchen that is no longer mine.
A) Counterspace
B) Big refrigarator
C) Ice maker
D) Dishwasher
E) Big self-cleaning oven W/ a lovely stove-range that is large, large, large
7. Oh, the list goes on and on...
I'm tired of complaining. I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of work, I'm tired of incompetence, I'm tired of feeling... I'm just freaking DONE with it all... until, of course, tomorrow when I wake up and start the same day over again.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Home Time... Good Girls Win
01/07/2005
Just started listening to the new Handsome Boy Modeling School joint-- pretty good shit.
The thing is that nobody knows themselves. Every day we go through, we're all just guessing. We live every movie we've ever seen, and the world has gone crazy. Like some kind of surreal Crayola crayon box.
I look at who my president is; I look at what purports to be Democracy; I think to myself that these things can't be real. When M says... "It's all going to be privatized; schools, prisons, everything owned by a corporation; it'd be just like all the futuristic movies..." and I'm sure that it will and everything they say is simultaneously true and false like a wacky truth or dare escapade...
These are the days I live in. And this is the history of the moment. Sometimes I wonder if I ever have a child (but this is a vague and extremely distant vision) if that child will look back at my eras the way I look to my mothers: the fifties, where ambiguous memories are best; the sixties, where everything changed rapidly and with/out reason; the seventies, where she found her truths and followed through; the eighties, where everything lifelike rioted again; the nineties, dealing with the four to ten of us... the 00's, building houses...
I got no time to get to where I don't need to be... Oh, please, just let me just break down.. I need this, oh dream, to break down...let me please break down...
M says it's good for Jack Johnson to break out of the mainstream. So far on the first listen through I'm all for good ole Handsome Boy Modeling School.
I should probably go. I'm clacking away on a friend's computer. We moved; we live below M & L now. Our best friends are our neighbors. We all have keys. It's actually a pretty good deal; so far.
Maybe one of these days I'll post something in regards to fiction that I write... whatever. I'm being asked what I'm doing. That's never a good sign.
Peace out...
Just started listening to the new Handsome Boy Modeling School joint-- pretty good shit.
The thing is that nobody knows themselves. Every day we go through, we're all just guessing. We live every movie we've ever seen, and the world has gone crazy. Like some kind of surreal Crayola crayon box.
I look at who my president is; I look at what purports to be Democracy; I think to myself that these things can't be real. When M says... "It's all going to be privatized; schools, prisons, everything owned by a corporation; it'd be just like all the futuristic movies..." and I'm sure that it will and everything they say is simultaneously true and false like a wacky truth or dare escapade...
These are the days I live in. And this is the history of the moment. Sometimes I wonder if I ever have a child (but this is a vague and extremely distant vision) if that child will look back at my eras the way I look to my mothers: the fifties, where ambiguous memories are best; the sixties, where everything changed rapidly and with/out reason; the seventies, where she found her truths and followed through; the eighties, where everything lifelike rioted again; the nineties, dealing with the four to ten of us... the 00's, building houses...
I got no time to get to where I don't need to be... Oh, please, just let me just break down.. I need this, oh dream, to break down...let me please break down...
M says it's good for Jack Johnson to break out of the mainstream. So far on the first listen through I'm all for good ole Handsome Boy Modeling School.
I should probably go. I'm clacking away on a friend's computer. We moved; we live below M & L now. Our best friends are our neighbors. We all have keys. It's actually a pretty good deal; so far.
Maybe one of these days I'll post something in regards to fiction that I write... whatever. I'm being asked what I'm doing. That's never a good sign.
Peace out...
One Day At A Time- Screw That
I hate taking it one day at a time.
I hate that one person can fuck everything up.
I hate it that I'm not a violent or malicious person but I wish violence and malevolence on an individual, or rather, a pack of stinking wolves.
It just isn't fair.
This has been my call phrase for god-only-knows-how-long and a running joke in my family. I always want everything to be fair... my father wants me to become a lawyer because of this. But you know, I work with a bunch of lawyers and I'm pretty cool with not being one. The money isn't worth it. It's barely worth it for me to even be thier silly little secretary.
Regardless, soldiering on is required. The crazy one will never go away. Someone will always believe her lies. I feel like this is inevitable-- and people are the constant variable-- no one ever knows.
Got the new Shins album today and Handsome Boy Modeling School. Who doesn't love baroque rock and the greats Dan the Automator & Prince Paaaaaaaaaaaul ?
Not that it matters.
When I'm really depressed I buy new music.
Guess this finally got to me.
And I can't even really say what this is. Limiting my words-- man, that crazy girl really knows how to stick it to ya. Seriously. Oh... lord. I should just work on a story, not on this blog. I should just be not thinking about it, detatching myself, eliminating the emotional elements. But it's hard not to feel personally attacked. It's hard not to feel curtailed and hated. It's hard not to want to grab the nearest sharp object and puncture tires.
But One Day At A Time. These things can take months. Years, even.
Jesus.
I hate that one person can fuck everything up.
I hate it that I'm not a violent or malicious person but I wish violence and malevolence on an individual, or rather, a pack of stinking wolves.
It just isn't fair.
This has been my call phrase for god-only-knows-how-long and a running joke in my family. I always want everything to be fair... my father wants me to become a lawyer because of this. But you know, I work with a bunch of lawyers and I'm pretty cool with not being one. The money isn't worth it. It's barely worth it for me to even be thier silly little secretary.
Regardless, soldiering on is required. The crazy one will never go away. Someone will always believe her lies. I feel like this is inevitable-- and people are the constant variable-- no one ever knows.
Got the new Shins album today and Handsome Boy Modeling School. Who doesn't love baroque rock and the greats Dan the Automator & Prince Paaaaaaaaaaaul ?
Not that it matters.
When I'm really depressed I buy new music.
Guess this finally got to me.
And I can't even really say what this is. Limiting my words-- man, that crazy girl really knows how to stick it to ya. Seriously. Oh... lord. I should just work on a story, not on this blog. I should just be not thinking about it, detatching myself, eliminating the emotional elements. But it's hard not to feel personally attacked. It's hard not to feel curtailed and hated. It's hard not to want to grab the nearest sharp object and puncture tires.
But One Day At A Time. These things can take months. Years, even.
Jesus.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Old Thoughts. New Blog
Old thoughts. New Blog.
First, there was angelfire... The Reflection .
Then, there was diaryland... Monkeybeth Rambles...
And of course, who can forget runboard? Eak The Monkey ...
And now... we have blogger.com. Lovely.
I've been posting random thoughts on the internet since 1995 (I think. It may have been '96).
Indulging yourself on county time is great. Fantastic. Thanks to all you taxpayers for allowing my narcissitic mispellings and all that shy-it... Not that I'm the one taxpayers should be concerned about. They should be freaking out about these other county employees who forget to put slips in for sick time and disappear for three to five hour lunches and have movie breaks in the library and all that shit. They should be more concerned about the ones who come in at ten and leave at four.
That'd be a nice work day... but, comma, no comma.
I'm in the no comma crowd. All the losers described above... well... sorry TP's but they be in the comma department.
So I'm not that bad. I don't even take full hour lunches...
We moved this weekend and I am exhausted. Who ever knew that hardwood floors would make such a difference in the temperature of my apartment!?! Freezing all the time. Sleeping in long sleeve t-shirts. Not so sexy as see-through tank tops and panties. But I guess we can't all be sexy all the time.
Today is Futon Day. Our flea-infested, seventies patterned, springs-all-sprung, tiny itsy bitsy teeny weeny loveseat is no more! How exciting for those of us who despise fleas. Get off my fucking cats, you little bastards, squish, crack, no more flea. We cleaned out our apartment and the loveseat was the last thing to go. We hauled it out and set it in front of the house with a Free sign; some poor sucker bastard picked it up within forty five minutes.
Hope s/he doesn't mind the fleas.
Put an old vaccuum out there, too, and within moments it was gone. Damn people didn't take the eight bags of clothes, though. Woulda saved me a trip to the goodwill.
Too bad for the tsunami victims that no where is accepting clothing donations... they coulda been pimped out in gap and gucci.
I lied about that gucci part.
I don't even own any gucci shit. Unless you count OK computer where Thom York says gucci little piggies... but I don't think that even counts. Not even that. But I do love the gap, despite an ardent protestation of them in my teenage years. I'd cross streets to avoid even being on the same side as a gap. I'd yell at innocent cheerleaders. Now that I'm working, Gap is handy-- one pair of pants in thirty different colors... sounds great!
Montel Williams smokes pot.
Right on for him. Way to be a leader, Montel
I should get back to work. Enough unoriginality for today.
Peace, yo.
First, there was angelfire... The Reflection .
Then, there was diaryland... Monkeybeth Rambles...
And of course, who can forget runboard? Eak The Monkey ...
And now... we have blogger.com. Lovely.
I've been posting random thoughts on the internet since 1995 (I think. It may have been '96).
Indulging yourself on county time is great. Fantastic. Thanks to all you taxpayers for allowing my narcissitic mispellings and all that shy-it... Not that I'm the one taxpayers should be concerned about. They should be freaking out about these other county employees who forget to put slips in for sick time and disappear for three to five hour lunches and have movie breaks in the library and all that shit. They should be more concerned about the ones who come in at ten and leave at four.
That'd be a nice work day... but, comma, no comma.
I'm in the no comma crowd. All the losers described above... well... sorry TP's but they be in the comma department.
So I'm not that bad. I don't even take full hour lunches...
We moved this weekend and I am exhausted. Who ever knew that hardwood floors would make such a difference in the temperature of my apartment!?! Freezing all the time. Sleeping in long sleeve t-shirts. Not so sexy as see-through tank tops and panties. But I guess we can't all be sexy all the time.
Today is Futon Day. Our flea-infested, seventies patterned, springs-all-sprung, tiny itsy bitsy teeny weeny loveseat is no more! How exciting for those of us who despise fleas. Get off my fucking cats, you little bastards, squish, crack, no more flea. We cleaned out our apartment and the loveseat was the last thing to go. We hauled it out and set it in front of the house with a Free sign; some poor sucker bastard picked it up within forty five minutes.
Hope s/he doesn't mind the fleas.
Put an old vaccuum out there, too, and within moments it was gone. Damn people didn't take the eight bags of clothes, though. Woulda saved me a trip to the goodwill.
Too bad for the tsunami victims that no where is accepting clothing donations... they coulda been pimped out in gap and gucci.
I lied about that gucci part.
I don't even own any gucci shit. Unless you count OK computer where Thom York says gucci little piggies... but I don't think that even counts. Not even that. But I do love the gap, despite an ardent protestation of them in my teenage years. I'd cross streets to avoid even being on the same side as a gap. I'd yell at innocent cheerleaders. Now that I'm working, Gap is handy-- one pair of pants in thirty different colors... sounds great!
Montel Williams smokes pot.
Right on for him. Way to be a leader, Montel
I should get back to work. Enough unoriginality for today.
Peace, yo.
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About Me
- xoxo, elizabeth
- San Leandro, California, United States
- About as average as average can average.