What a shitty day this has been. My department's been behind on several milk and dairy deliveries this last week, mainly because I'm the only one that seems to be working on them, and today I pretty much imploded. First thing this morning, I got sent over to work on bread, even though it was already done, and had to mark down prices on food that's about to expire, a job usually reserved for department heads. It was about halfway through my shift when I even got to get started on yesterday's delivery. That's right, yesterday's. Oh, and there was also the inane corporate survey that the HR person demanded I do right away, lest the corporate paymasters keel over and die. And then, the one guy who was supposed to help me today got sent off to another department by the dipshit in charge when my boss isn't around, who I'm pretty sure does nothing and can get away with it because he's the union steward. And that's all set up for the meltdown I had in my last two hours.
It was when I checked on the co-worker who was sent away. He's a well-meaning and hard-working guy, but he has two annoying tendencies: 1) If you ask or tell him to do something, he always goes "I was wonderin' 'bout that." (no, buddy, you weren't, otherwise you'd have fucking done it already!), and 2) He twists the English language into some perverse cypher that only he understands. Most of the time, this comes in the form of his own garbled jargon ("going off the deep end"="filling the shelf"; "blackmarking"="writing my name"; etc.), but it also goes both ways, such as if I ask a basic question like "How much do you have left to do?" Easy to answer, but he turns it into a monologue about what he had to do up until that point, and where everything he was working on had to go. Today, I just wasn't in the mood for it, and snapped, "Answer the GODDAM QUESTION!"
Later, I sort of yelled at another co-worker from another department who kept pestering me about helping her unload a truck, despite the fact there were a dozen other people just as qualified as I am to do that, while I was trying to help a customer. In a day that was pock-marked by unnecessary sidetracks, I really couldn't take another one, especially one for a department that I'm not in.
So, yeah, today I was the prick, and it's not a state I like to find myself in.
It was when I checked on the co-worker who was sent away. He's a well-meaning and hard-working guy, but he has two annoying tendencies: 1) If you ask or tell him to do something, he always goes "I was wonderin' 'bout that." (no, buddy, you weren't, otherwise you'd have fucking done it already!), and 2) He twists the English language into some perverse cypher that only he understands. Most of the time, this comes in the form of his own garbled jargon ("going off the deep end"="filling the shelf"; "blackmarking"="writing my name"; etc.), but it also goes both ways, such as if I ask a basic question like "How much do you have left to do?" Easy to answer, but he turns it into a monologue about what he had to do up until that point, and where everything he was working on had to go. Today, I just wasn't in the mood for it, and snapped, "Answer the GODDAM QUESTION!"
Later, I sort of yelled at another co-worker from another department who kept pestering me about helping her unload a truck, despite the fact there were a dozen other people just as qualified as I am to do that, while I was trying to help a customer. In a day that was pock-marked by unnecessary sidetracks, I really couldn't take another one, especially one for a department that I'm not in.
So, yeah, today I was the prick, and it's not a state I like to find myself in.
I'm wondering at what point the smells of skunk and cow manure actually became pleasant to me. Not that I go around actively sniffing those things, but if I'm driving along a country road and one of those smells actually hits my nostrils, I tend to smile and breathe it in.
Quit staring at me like that.
Maybe after several hours of working in a dairy cooler where it seems like half the milk leaks everywhere and the resulting smell taking on a rather ripe odor, or around the trash compactor, which has just the right mix of groceries, or the bottle bins full of recycled bottles and cans that still had just a little bit of booze or soda left over and have accumulated by leaking through the bins and forming permanent puddles on the floor...wait, what was I talking about again? Oh right, why I like the smell of manure. I guess those other smells are so much more concentrated and burn their way into my nervous system so that nothing else can ever ever ever be as bad as those smells, and anything else becomes pleasant by default.
Or maybe something's wrong with me.
Quit staring at me like that.
Maybe after several hours of working in a dairy cooler where it seems like half the milk leaks everywhere and the resulting smell taking on a rather ripe odor, or around the trash compactor, which has just the right mix of groceries, or the bottle bins full of recycled bottles and cans that still had just a little bit of booze or soda left over and have accumulated by leaking through the bins and forming permanent puddles on the floor...wait, what was I talking about again? Oh right, why I like the smell of manure. I guess those other smells are so much more concentrated and burn their way into my nervous system so that nothing else can ever ever ever be as bad as those smells, and anything else becomes pleasant by default.
Or maybe something's wrong with me.
Holy shit I did it. After getting some sleep last night, about the first thing I did was turn on the computer, login, and go to a magazine's website and go through the submission process. Granted, the waiting time is about 3 months, so I'll probably have forgotten about it by the time they reply*, but still, I fucking did it.
Of course, now I'm worried that I forgot to attach the story to my submission e-mail, and that I'll look like a complete doffus, but whatever. It's done, and I'm hoping for the best.
On the flip side of that news: I think I've already been published at the small scale. The college I went to publishes an annual writing magazine and a few of my stories were supposed to be in there. I don't know if it's actually been published, it was supposed to have gone out in June, with contributor copies to be mailed out shortly after, but I haven't heard anything about it. The college has been cutting the budget for the Writing department, leaving mainly the creative writing courses and programs out in the cold, so it wouldn't surprise me if the magazine's been delayed or (knock on wood) axed. I should follow up on this.
*Yeah, right. Like I'd forget that.
Of course, now I'm worried that I forgot to attach the story to my submission e-mail, and that I'll look like a complete doffus, but whatever. It's done, and I'm hoping for the best.
On the flip side of that news: I think I've already been published at the small scale. The college I went to publishes an annual writing magazine and a few of my stories were supposed to be in there. I don't know if it's actually been published, it was supposed to have gone out in June, with contributor copies to be mailed out shortly after, but I haven't heard anything about it. The college has been cutting the budget for the Writing department, leaving mainly the creative writing courses and programs out in the cold, so it wouldn't surprise me if the magazine's been delayed or (knock on wood) axed. I should follow up on this.
*Yeah, right. Like I'd forget that.
If I only had some courage.
Today, I've sat ponderously over a submission form for a writing magazine, wanting desperately to send in a short story I had written about a year and a half ago. Unfortunately, I can't seem to take the leap of faith. It's not that I have doubts about my writing or even that I'm afraid of criticism. I do, and I am (a little), but it's never stopped me from taking a risk of open-mic nights or writer's workshops. While the latter might not be punishing, the former can be nerve-wracking based on the reaction. But, something about submitting a story makes me pause, while talking on a microphone doesn't.
Maybe I feel "unworthy" somehow, or that I'm not ready, which would be bullshit if I really thought that, since writing is the only thing I've ever wanted to do with my life with one hundred percent certainty.
No, it's none of that. I guess, in all honesty, I'm afraid of the submission guidelines more than anything. "Use this font, in 12-point, double-spaced, yakkity yakkity yak yawny doo." Reading the guidelines would make me break out in a sweat even if it wasn't 88 degrees in my apartment. I think I'm more worried about screwing up one of these guidelines in my submission and making a complete gaffe than whether or not the editor will send back a twenty page critique of my twelve page story telling me that my work is absolute drudgery. A completely silly thing to worry about, I know, but it's enough to stop me from pushing a button.
Today, I've sat ponderously over a submission form for a writing magazine, wanting desperately to send in a short story I had written about a year and a half ago. Unfortunately, I can't seem to take the leap of faith. It's not that I have doubts about my writing or even that I'm afraid of criticism. I do, and I am (a little), but it's never stopped me from taking a risk of open-mic nights or writer's workshops. While the latter might not be punishing, the former can be nerve-wracking based on the reaction. But, something about submitting a story makes me pause, while talking on a microphone doesn't.
Maybe I feel "unworthy" somehow, or that I'm not ready, which would be bullshit if I really thought that, since writing is the only thing I've ever wanted to do with my life with one hundred percent certainty.
No, it's none of that. I guess, in all honesty, I'm afraid of the submission guidelines more than anything. "Use this font, in 12-point, double-spaced, yakkity yakkity yak yawny doo." Reading the guidelines would make me break out in a sweat even if it wasn't 88 degrees in my apartment. I think I'm more worried about screwing up one of these guidelines in my submission and making a complete gaffe than whether or not the editor will send back a twenty page critique of my twelve page story telling me that my work is absolute drudgery. A completely silly thing to worry about, I know, but it's enough to stop me from pushing a button.
This morning, when I punched into work, I saw a sign on the bulletin board that said "Please wear a Patriotic shirt for Friday, July 4" and then blah blah blah. I found it kind of amusing on many levels: how can a shirt be patriotic? Do they mean wear a New England Patriots shirt? How patriotic is patriotic? Can a shirt be TOO patriotic? Is the patriotism null and void or strengthened if it's made in China? Most importantly: do I even have a patriotic shirt?
Of course, after the stomach turning rush of anxiety and fear of maybe not having a patriotic shirt to wear on Friday died down, I came to the realization that the only way a shirt can be patriotic is if the person wearing it wishes to stand for the ideals of the country, and not for some crass desire to be a part of the freedom club or the patriot platoon. So, my patriotic shirt could have a flag on it, it could not. It could have a dragon, Spider-Man, a clever phrase, nothing at all, or I could be wearing nothing at all. When I told this to my co-workers though, they got all fidgety and said, "but you're supposed to wear red, white, and blue", before calling Homeland Security on me. Fortunately, they didn't discover my real name of Abdul, otherwise I wouldn't be here to write this inanity, which is rendered moot by the fact that I have the fourth off anyway, but I found this whole thing kind of amusing. If you did too, great, if not, swell, and if you want to tell me it was stupid, that's your patriotic duty to do so, but fuck you anyway.
Cheers, enjoy the weekend however you fit, and behold my cleverly staged kaiju battle:
Of course, after the stomach turning rush of anxiety and fear of maybe not having a patriotic shirt to wear on Friday died down, I came to the realization that the only way a shirt can be patriotic is if the person wearing it wishes to stand for the ideals of the country, and not for some crass desire to be a part of the freedom club or the patriot platoon. So, my patriotic shirt could have a flag on it, it could not. It could have a dragon, Spider-Man, a clever phrase, nothing at all, or I could be wearing nothing at all. When I told this to my co-workers though, they got all fidgety and said, "but you're supposed to wear red, white, and blue", before calling Homeland Security on me. Fortunately, they didn't discover my real name of Abdul, otherwise I wouldn't be here to write this inanity, which is rendered moot by the fact that I have the fourth off anyway, but I found this whole thing kind of amusing. If you did too, great, if not, swell, and if you want to tell me it was stupid, that's your patriotic duty to do so, but fuck you anyway.
Cheers, enjoy the weekend however you fit, and behold my cleverly staged kaiju battle:
"Go Subliminal: Kill! Kill! Kill!"
I'm going to tell you this once,
and then it'll be over
gnimaercs mom reccos taht ees uoy
bout-ay he-tay vil-eay ildren-chay?
I've opened the door,
you can do it.
ecaf eht ni reh kcams
ith-way a ychich-psay ast-blay!
Now, repeat after me:
this was only a test.
ereh egassem on si ereht.
emember-ray at-thay, ease-play?
I'm going to tell you this once,
and then it'll be over
gnimaercs mom reccos taht ees uoy
bout-ay he-tay vil-eay ildren-chay?
I've opened the door,
you can do it.
ecaf eht ni reh kcams
ith-way a ychich-psay ast-blay!
Now, repeat after me:
this was only a test.
ereh egassem on si ereht.
emember-ray at-thay, ease-play?
After some urging by googirl, I decided to put up some of my writing, so here's a draft of a kind of slipstream poem I'm working on. Not sure if I'll stick with this one or not, but any input, or random insults about my writing, would be great.
"Chrome Buzzards in Harmony"
Stakeout, make out
palace on a lake house.
Through war, and lies,
the king forced us to these lives.
Skate through, make room,
time for Chrome Buzzards to play, too.
We crash the ball
of all the mobsters and John Galt.
Spray paint, out late,
"You're a buncha kids," you say.
But there's much more
as our red visors show.
Then we beat you
to a bloody pulp
with our nightsticks,
like you did to our friends.
We strip you clean
of all your dirty monies
Then we drop a
grenade and skate away.
The blast, so fast,
shines off our livery
"What fun, it's done,
viva la revolution!"
"Chrome Buzzards in Harmony"
Stakeout, make out
palace on a lake house.
Through war, and lies,
the king forced us to these lives.
Skate through, make room,
time for Chrome Buzzards to play, too.
We crash the ball
of all the mobsters and John Galt.
Spray paint, out late,
"You're a buncha kids," you say.
But there's much more
as our red visors show.
Then we beat you
to a bloody pulp
with our nightsticks,
like you did to our friends.
We strip you clean
of all your dirty monies
Then we drop a
grenade and skate away.
The blast, so fast,
shines off our livery
"What fun, it's done,
viva la revolution!"
Holy Fuck! Can it be?! After stumbling around from moving, a bout of the flu, and my own disorganized stupor, have I actually managed to find my way on the Interwebs again? I am shocked. Amazed. Stupified. Awestruck. Dumbstruck. Dumbfound. Slack-jawed. Bewildered. But most of all: giddy, 'cuz now I have my precious internet again, and I have come out of the Industrial Revolution of dialup into the nice, shiny modern-age of broadband! Congrats we3, it only took you a few years longer than everyone else. Guess I better celebrate with some YouTube videos and some hard liquor.
Oh, wait. Have to work morning shift tomorrow. Fuck!
Oh, wait. Have to work morning shift tomorrow. Fuck!
All leased up and ready to go. Now, I'm going through the nightmare of moving my stuff. BBBBBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!
*pulls out chunk of hair*
*pulls out chunk of hair*
Today, I get my first look at the apartment I plan on moving into. It's in a great location and at a price my peon-wages can afford, though I do have to be more strict with my budget.
Unfortunately, the lease says "no pets," and I'm uncomfortable leaving my cats with my parents, who are the only ones able to take them. It's not that they hate cats or anything, it's just that they're absent-minded. When I left one with them a year ago, they forgot that they even let him outside. In the middle of winter. I mean, cats are pretty self-reliant, but they are still domestic animals who will want back in.
Maybe I'm just worrying a bit too much.
Unfortunately, the lease says "no pets," and I'm uncomfortable leaving my cats with my parents, who are the only ones able to take them. It's not that they hate cats or anything, it's just that they're absent-minded. When I left one with them a year ago, they forgot that they even let him outside. In the middle of winter. I mean, cats are pretty self-reliant, but they are still domestic animals who will want back in.
Maybe I'm just worrying a bit too much.
JANUARY 2009
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DECEMBER 2008
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NOVEMBER 2008
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OCTOBER 2008