please please prettybaby
2001-08-22 - 5:46 p.m.
Heading down to college tomorrow afternoon, so I might be offline for a while I�m getting on the school network. If the directions are good (and directions gotten from gnomes never are), we should arrive at Lucy�s house slightly after 8pm to bid our farewells for the maximum of the next couple years.
Sidenote: I have struggled and struggled to find something in my head which, on the content side of things, is very Jason. Butbut the words. They are very. Lucy. It is just not to be had.
I had a dream about Step-sister�s cat, Tragedy. I dreamed that some cats were reincarnated people, and you could tell which ones they are because they kept their human eyes (eyes being the �window to the soul� and other such nonsense). That was pretty much the whole dream, one of those dreams that seems like it�s over before it really starts. But then, I look at the cat, and she has very round eyes. Not catlike or slitted at all. Step-sister had a dream about her cat last night...she dreamt that we had a pet snake too, and it bit the cat, and the cat died. End dream.
Sidenote: Some elves just...grow up to be dentists.
Went food-shopping with the family. I tried to explain to them that it�s all plastic. Everything they pull off the shelves and put in the cart might as well be synthetic forms of rubber. The brand names change, the misleading label advertising that there is, indeed, food inside the container, changes. But it�s plastic just the same. All your poptarts and gummy bears, the microwave popcorn, armpit gel, and even good-smelly shampoo. Mustache wax, toilet seat covers, and spoons designed specifically for hollowing kiwi fruits. Half an isle dedicated to over-the counter sugar pills. A full isle for feminine hygiene. As an example, I asked Step-sister why she Needs bodywash. �To wash your body, duh-uh.� But where did she get the idea that watered-down animal fat is any better for her body than normal animal fat? The TV tells her that soap dries out her skin. The TV says that you�re not cool unless you�re a macho guy or a cute girl. And then everyone complains that it�s impossible to have the physical dimensions that society demands girls to, and everyone else complains that guys are pig-headed and oafish. But we made us that way. The television producers only make what sells, and the only thing that sells is what we want to be. We want to be what we aren�t. And the majority of America wants to be either a cheerleader or a superhero action figure. I asked Father what reasoning he used to choose between different brands of mustard. �Well...this one has yellow15, and that�s Bad for you.� Fuckin� food colouring. That�s like not drinking Mountain Dew because you think it�s dangerous to your sexlife...wait, I know people that do that too. Damn the nutritionists. Damn the food specialist. Damn the FDA and the government they rode in on. So when we got home, he asked if I could pour him a bowl of grease-laden potato chips. But that�s not even the really annoying thing. The most annoying thing I encountered this week was the manager of the supermarket. See, we were buying a lot of plastic from the shelves of this plastic store, with it�s little plastic people, and three happened to be no plastic bag-boy at the end of our plastic check-out line to ask us if we wanted �plastic or plastic� to bag our plastic in. So I went to the place where the plastic bag-boy should have been, and proceeded to bag the plastic myself. The manager, who happened to be working at our conveyer belt, says �don�t get too good at that, or I�ll have to hire you�. I laughed and let it pass, but said that I had already applied for a job here earlier this summer. The guy proceeds to talk to me, and it eventually hits me that he�s hitting me up for a job. I wanted to knock his head off with a plastic bag of frozen broccoli (but none was to be had, because we were no purchasing that particular style of plastic). When I applied for the job, this exact manager took one glance at me and said that all the positions were filled. Told me that he probably wouldn�t need anyone all summer, because he had some people waiting for jobs in case he had to let anyone go. And here we are, near the end of the summer, and there are two workers on the registers, neither of whom I�ve seen before, and the manager, working at a register because the lines have started to get long. But he probably didn�t recognize me with hair. After all, when he lied to me about positions being open, I had my head and eyebrows shaved. And then, �Oh really...you going to school this year then?� �I will be, in a few days...down in Massachusetts�. Exit store. I hate freakin� baldists. Those people that think you Must be a punk, because you have blue hair or a pricing. Those people that assume you�re always up to mischief, because you have a *gasp* black trench coat. Those people that think you�re an axe murderer because you have no eyebrows.
Related Sidenote: A couple days after I stopped in to apply for a job at this supermarket, the owner of a hotel in the area told me that he wouldn�t hire me because he has 'no use for younger men�, while handing Sarah an application for a waitress position that he needed filled.
Several days ago, I started the journey to visibility. Ya see, a while ago, I lost my permit and social security card. I have my birth certificate, but no form of picture ID, which causes a problem because nearly every type of identification requires that you have two other forms of existing identification to apply for it. It doesn�t help that I�m going to college in several days, so I won�t even be at my summer mailing address.
If someone else tells me to walk Step-mother�s rat/dog one more time, I�m gonna tie it to a cinder clock and throw it in the river with the rest of the world�s unwanted children. It came from an animal shelter in the first place, and it�s not one of those cute dogs that people want to have hanging around their home (it gets into the trash every couple hours if you�re not watching it), so it should have been dead already. Step-mother doesn�t take care of it, and no one else in this house likes it...not even my cat, and that�s reason enough.
Called up the bank to get my phone number corrected on my checks. They just screwed up on one digit, but I was sorta worried about the validity of such checks, and the possibility that I overdraw my account and some other Joe Shmoe gets notified about it.
�Okay...and can I have your phone number?�
*give the guy my number*
�Okay, and that�s your phone number?�
�yes...the 207 area code is for Maine...�
�Okay. And what is that for?�
�Umm, whatdoyamean? It�s...a phone number...it�s for calling people.�
�Okay...we�ll get right on it.�
Sometimes I think that forty hours a week is too much for some people.
Narrator: And so it was that the Sirs met again, for the first time.
Sir#1: Hello there, good Sir.
Sir#2: A welcoming hello to you too, Sir. If I may be so forward, mighten I inquire of your name?
Sir#1: My surname is Numberone, but you may call me by my title as �Sir�.
Sir#2: And you may likewise call me by my title of �Sir�, but my surname is Numbertwo.
Sir#1: If I might then Sir, could I have a word with you?
Sir#2: Why of course; my left ear is open, and my other as well.
Sir#1: ...
Sir#2: ...
Sir#1: Wel, that was quite the conversation, I must say.
Sir#2: I must agree. Rather stimulating in the not-so-grand scheme of things.
Sir#1: Would you care for another?
Sir#2: Indubitably, dear Sir.
Sir#1: ...
Sir#2: ...
Narrator: Such nonsense continued long into the night, and reoccurrences reoccurred more times than was decided to be healthy.
Mum said she�s proud of me. She didn�t say what for, but I guess she really didn�t need to be any more specific. Since about a week before I graduated, I�d been sorta waiting for someone to say something along these lines, and she happened to be the first. I wonder if she�ll ever know that my college essay was a letter to her, ending in �I love you, mom�. In actuality, I�m the one that should be proud of her; in the past six months, she�s managed to hold two jobs, and is heading a sewing project to make a nativity-themed baby�s quilt for someone else. Laura�s doing a paper in history about a real-life hero of hers, and I think she�s gonna write about Mum. I�m sure she�ll have no trouble filling up two pages, and then some. She may be a bit crazy, but she seems to exhibit all of the good qualities a person can have...and for that, I�m proud of her.
Me, trying to explain different types of logical arguments to Sister: �I�ve got a black mouse for my computer, right?�
Sister:�Yup. (thank goodness she didn�t go into a tangent argument on perception, as most anyone would have done)�
Me: Assuming that this is the only mouse I�ve seen, I can logically say that �all mice are black�...now there�s a prob -�
�Wait, isn�t that, like, racist?�
I can�t help but think of what she would have said, had my mouse been blue.
I made myself a pillow. Unfortunately, I chose to make a down-feather pillow from two other existing down-feather pillows. Suffice to say that it was eventually completed, but I got a couple mouthfuls of feathers somewhere in the middle, and the porch was a bit of a mess.
Sometimes I think that my individual purpose in life is to make everyone else feel good. Despite my other reasons for becoming a mortician, this is/was my real motivation for doing so. I just feel so much better after having wished someone a good night�s rest, at the end of a day that�s just as long as the day to come. So sweet dreams to all the readers out there...may you forever be pleased with the five fingers you have on each hand, and your single beating heart.
