ugggggggggggggggghhhhhhh

Ohhhh God. It's 8:50 and I am awake. I have been, in fact, for like 10 minutes. My landlord is having my fence rebuilt and her son and nephew are doing it. They're very nice, but ohhhh Lord it's early. *sigh* I didn't go to bed until almost 2. *yawwwn* To add insult to injury I think I'm going to have to take Winston out for a walk at this ungodly hour since the fence no longer exists in its entirity. It isn't so much that he'd take off, he would just most definitely harrass the poor lads trying to work. Looking back, those two statements are a little on the nonsensical side, but whatever. It's too early. But you know? At least they didn't show up at 7.

Okay, let me say right now that what I'm going to write about is fairly gory, and pretty damned disturbing. So if you don't want to be sickened and disturbed, please don't read this. It's nothing profound, just me venting about something that actually got to me a little bit.

Ohhh, I experienced something today that sorta freaked me out. And by "freaked me out" I don't mean like when that icky druggie patient hocked a huge loogie into an unlined garbage can, or the time he hocked one on the floor, or tonight when he announced that he had to take a huge crap. Sorry, I guess that turned into a mini-vent. Anyway...it went like this. I was walking through the unit, on my way I don't know where. Marisol was wheeling her patient to the scale when his freshly bandaged sites started pouring blood all over him, her, and most everything else within a few feet. I think spraying would be more the word, and I'm not exactly sure how. But it was bad. This is a common occurrence, so I swooped in with a barrier (a sheet of plasticy paper kinda stuff that we put under the arm to prevent further crime-scene decor) and gauze and I told Marisol to get lost because she had blood all over her bare arms. She was trying to get the gauze and tape off his arm, but was having a hard time because his skin was tearing off. You see, the older, sicker, and more medicated you are, the more papery and extremely fragile your skin gets. Well, this patient was no exception. In fact, I think his is the worst I've ever seen. I took over, certain I could figure out how to get the tape off without tearing any more skin off and without being sprayed with blood. It was leaking terribly and it was hard to hold the barrier on, add more gauze, and try to to pull off the saturated bandage, not get sprayed, and all the while trying to be gentle. I made it almost all fo the way off with the bandage but some of his skin still tore off. It was an unspeakable feeling, and when I saw him wince in pain I almsot cried. It was hellish, actually. It's no one's fault, it was just a sad thing, but I felt so bad. I still could almost cry for him. I apologized profusely even though it was unavoidable, and he was very nice about it, but it really kind of got to me. *sigh* Hope I never have to work in a burn unit, when you do it on purpose.

tres bizarre

Remember how I said that my life is sorta like an independent film sometimes? Last night was a prime example. Our regular tech aide, Jorge, was off for the evening seeing a concert he should have abandoned his wife for and taken me to. In his place was Ryan. Many things can be said about Ryan, but the underlying theme is that he's stupid, clueless, but a hard worker and reasonably sweet guy deep down. Anyway, Ryan and I went to take the garbage out sometime between 10:30 and 11 and we heard what sounded suspiciously like a drum circle. Considering that we work in a dull business park in a dull business area of town, it seemed unlikely. Especially considering that the place is almost totally abandoned at that hour excepting us and an occasional psycho working late. We stopped and listened, trying to hear what rational sound it could be, but to no avail. It just sounded like a drum circle. Ryan was ready to finish his smoke-arette and go back in, but I wanted to investigate. Off we went into the wilds of said business park, following the sounds of the drums. Several buildings down and to the right the sounds came to a head. We turned the corner and our jaws dropped. There were perhaps 20 people grouped together, many of them dancing and twirling with...fire. They had little torch kinda things, kevlar sleeve type things, batons, and chains with tennis balls attached that were, of course, in flames. They danced to the sound of the drums, and as we watched several reached down with their accoutrement and lit the ground on fire. Trails of yellow then blue flames burned and then eventually fizzled out. We watched and wondered if we had stumbled across some freaky weird ritual, and you know? That's essentially correct. A big, stupid guy in a brush fire turnout coat came walking up to us, and I remember wondering if he was going to try to sacrifice us to their freaky fire gods. Thankfully or not, he did not. He came up and explained that they were just a bunch of people who got together every Wednesday night and did their little fire dancing thing. They had to rotate locations because as you can imagine the local authorities weren't exactly ardent supporters. I was rather entertained by the whole thing, who wouldn't be? It isn't every day that a bunch of pyro whack-jobs inhabit the back lots of your place of employment late at night. I went and got Craig, and we sat in disbelief as psycho fireman explained how inexpensive of a hobby it really was, and so much fun! I think he was trying to recruit us. And as if this weren't enough, he was smitten with me. Yes, gentle readers, it's time to take out the long list of fuck-ups, losers, and malefactors that love me and tack another name on. He gave me his card (oh please) and said I should email him. In fact he told me this like 17,000 times. And then he told me another 12,000 times that if I made him cookies he'd come back with his herd o' loons the following week. I'll just bet he will. Yep. Cookies. Wooooow.

Aside from scary weird fireman guy who looked suspiciously as though he had a dungeon/torture chamber built into his basement, it was pretty damned cool. I mean really, could anything be more random? Picture it: you spend your day enmeshed in western medicine, and lets face it, that can be weird enough. Then, at the end of the night you stroll out to dispose of the biohazard garbage. All of a sudden you turn a corner and find...that! I mean, perhaps I'm sheltered, but I don't think most people ever see something like that, let alone purely by chance! But what do I know?

Yesterday I sat at the absolutely perfect Healdsburg dog park for almost two and a half hours. And you know what? I'd do it again today if I wasn't working. At first I sat and talked with an ever so sweet woman about nursing, but after she left I was alone. It was lovely. Winston and I sat alone for hours, him rambling around investigating the place and chasing balls I'd pitch for him and me enjoying the sun shelter and journaling. I have this exquisite red leather journal that I bought last year when I was in tech aide school in Redwood City, a couple of months before I went to PCT school in the same place. Before I moved away from Sonoma County several years ago I journaled every day, on paper, and blogged almost as much. I've gotten out of the habit of journaling regularly, for the time being my blogs are more in the forefront. There's something special about my paper journal, though. I discovered all sorts of interesting things yesterday as I wrote. For instance...I'm realizing that I have a bit of a rebellious streak. Shocking, I know. It's just that I never really thought about it that way since I was a teenager in Sebastopol. *smiles, remembering* The fact is, though, I still have it. I like to challenge certain rules because I want to be the bad ass that got away with...whatever. I like to beat certain systems, you see. Part of me says this is immaturity, but I prefer to think of it as "spirit." Yes, I am very high spirited. :-P

******

When I blog I am sometimes compelled to censor myself. Frightening, no? I know others have the same problem, and in fact I've read a book that refers to that very phenomena. Dev and I have devised a way to almost completely beat the censor, but it doesn't apply here, sadly. I bring this up because I'm realizing that the part of me that censors my writing is the same part that calls my rebellious spirit immaturity. It is the nasty, self-doubting, concerned with public opinion part of me, and I don't like it. I'll admit that the censorship serves a purpose at times, but in general, it offends good writing. I've decided to name the censor. I'm considering several names, but haven't settled on one yet. Any ideas?

******


music: Just What I Needed, the Cars

tea: Darjeeling

mood: strangely serene

from the Binxton...

> When we here at The Binxton were looking for news stories to
> write/talk about, we found a couple that really jumped out at us.
> When we dug a little deeper, we found that these stories were
> related (in more ways than one.) We also found that the main themes
> of these stories were not so much about the topics of their
> discussion, but rather the news itself.
>
> It may be a little bit choppy, but I promise that it will all come
> together in the end. Here are the stories:
>
> —Story 1—
>
> In the May 9 issue of Newsweek, the magazine reported that there
> would be a military report on alleged interrogation abuses at the
> detention center in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. In its piece, Newsweek
> states that, ’sources’ tell NEWSWEEK: Interrogators, in an attempt
> to rattle suspects, flushed a Qur’an down a toilet and led a
> detainee around with a collar and a dog leash.”
>
> This one little sentence fueled anti-American riots in the Muslim
> world that injured dozens, and killed at least fifteen.
>
> On May 16, Newsweek editor Mark Whitaker offered a retraction by
> stating, “Based on what we know now, we are retracting our original
> story that an internal military investigation had uncovered Qur’an
> abuse at Guantanamo Bay.”
>
> On May 17, Michael Gawenda of Newsweek wrote that, “A report that
> Islam’s holy book was flushed down a toilet, which sparked fatal
> riots is inaccurate.”
>
> Let’s stop here for a moment. Read the quote in the above paragraph
> one more time. We here at The Binxton find it rather interesting
> that Mr. Gawenda would have included the words, ‘which sparked
> fatal riots’. There was no need to, everyone would have known what
> he was talking about had those four words been omitted.
>
> Have you ever heard the line, “Guns don’t kill people, people kill
> people”? We think that what Mr. Gawenda was saying in his quote
> was, “Words don’t kill rioters, rioters kill rioters.” Besides, any
> first-year law student can tell you that words alone are never
> enough to justify violence. Also, you may find it interesting that
> the (at least) fifteen that were killed four paragraphs ago weren’t
> Americans.
>
> So where are we? Let’s see, Newsweek rang a bell, riots ensued
> because of the noise, and Newsweek tried to unring it.
>
> Gut Feeling—
> Although no one on staff here at The Binxton is of Middle Eastern
> descent, claims to be Islamic or Muslim, has ever been to Iraq,
> Afghanistan or Cuba, or has ever been affiliated with any branch of
> the United States military in any way whatsoever, it is our
> collective gut feeling that in the three plus years that detainees
> have been held in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, a Qur’an has probably been
> flushed down a toilet.
>
> We can loosely (and do I mean loosely) back this up by appealing to
> common sense with two points.
>
> Point #1—
> We’ve all seen the pictures of the “abuse” at Abu Ghirab—if you’re
> wondering why the word abuse is in quotes, you’ll know by the end
> of this—and it’s clear (perhaps reaching the level of common
> knowledge) that these people are not exactly treated like guests of
> the Waldorf-Astoria.
>
> Point #2—
> Right now there are roughly 200,000 members of the armed forces
> throughout the world, with a gentleman by the name of George W.
> Bush as their leader. We want you to imagine for a moment that you
> are the parent of roughly 200,000 men and women predominately aged
> 18-35. Some of them are bound to be screw-ups. And let’s face it, A
> lot of these people aren’t exactly the cream of the American crop.
> You know that a good portion of our military population enlisted
> only because they thought that doing so was better than any other
> opportunity that was or was not knocking on their door. Can you
> imagine that frame of mind? ‘There is nothing better that I can do
> with myself than to go halfway around the world to some godforsaken
> desert, and spend every waking moment literally fighting for my
> life. Even if the number of said type of soldier is only one
> percent, that still leaves 2000 bad apples out there.
>
> Okay, back to Newsweek. So they caved, why? Who knows. Who knows if
> pressure was brought to bare by the White House, or the Pentagon.
> Did they cave because it’s an outright lie? Or, is it true that
> some things are just better left unsaid? Who the hell knows?
>
> —Story 2—
>
> When we here at The Binxton first heard of this story, we were fighting over the headline
> within minutes. The top two by the way were, “Boxers or Briefs, Mr.
> Hussein” and “Saddam in Brief”. The story seems to have disappeared
> faster than tickets for Eagles tickets on a college campus, so if
> you’re unfamiliar with it, allow us; there is a magazine/newspaper
> type thing in the U.K. called The Sun. It’s not exactly a pillar of
> western journalism, just look at page three. Anyway, The Sun
> somehow procured some pictures of Saddam Hussein while in custody.
> One of them being an image of Mr. Hussein wearing nothing but a
> pair of what are commonly called tighty-whiteys.
>
> Two questions come to mind; who took the pictures, and how did The
> Sun get them? The answer to the first question is quite simple –
> who knows, we’ll never know, it might as well have been Ansel
> Adams. The second however, is much more interesting. According to
> The Sun, U.S. “military sources said they handed over the photos in
> the hope of dealing a body blow to the resistance in Iraq.”
> Interesting, isn’t it?
>
> The more we thought about this, the more we wondered why the photos
> didn’t end up in the mailbox of an American tabloid magazine. You
> don’t think that The Enquirer would have paid the equivalent of the
> gross domestic product of a small South American nation for them?
> After all, who enjoys a fall from grace more than we Americans? See
> O.J. Simpson, Martha Stewart and Michael Jackson.
>
> Then we thought that maybe the reason why they went to the Brits is
> because we Americans are really not all that interested. Let’s face
> it, most of us have all but forgotten about 9/11. It’s just
> something that happened a long time ago in a place far away.
> Especially to those of us in California. The battles in Iraq and
> Afghanistan are even further away. In fact, I’d bet that more than
> half of all Americans couldn’t point out either country on an
> unlabeled map of the world.
>
> We see the images on the news, but we don’t pay attention to the
> real world. We’d rather watch Desperate Housewives, or Paris Hilton
> hocking cheeseburgers, or newlyweds eating earthworms for a shot a
> fifty grand.
>
> Once again, pressure will probably be brought to bare by the
> Pentagon/White House regarding the photographs. In fact, the
> Pentagon has already issued the following statement; “These photos
> were taken in clear violation of DOD directives and possibly Geneva
> Convention guidelines for the humane treatment of detained
> individuals.”
>
> Tom Newton Dunn, editor for The Sun issued a statement of his own
> which most of the world could hardly agree more to, when he said
> that Mr. Hussein is, “hardly entitled to a single human courtesy.”
>
> So there you have it, two takes on two very interesting stories.
>
> What do you think?
>

Check out more on http://www.thebinxton.com

http://www.paleothea.com/aphrodite.html

Has anyone noticed that we've all been blogging considerably less lately? Por que? For me it's been that I'm too tired, too stressed, or too self-censoring. And throw in a little forgetfulness, while I'm thinking of it. The past three days alone have brought me ideas for several entertaining if not brilliant blogs, but you know? They're all gone. My preoccupations eat them, you see. It's true, my stress causes premature forgetfulness, I'm afraid.

Road Sister

Ooooooooooookay. So it's been a while since I posted anything. Finals came and went, the math one is most certainly a bad thing, but I've decided I don't care, I'm just happy it's over. I sat down and figured out how much I'm in the hole the other day. It's lame. I know it really isn't that much, but it's just enough to be unavailable and worrisome. Blah. I'm not sure what to do, and I'm trying to figure out where to transfer to next spring on top of it. It's related because until I get caught up on all my stuff I really can't afford to go anywhere. But I know for certain I do not want to go to SSU. And I want to go directly for a BSN, so the JC isn't really an option. *sigh* If I could choose anywhere I'd go to UCSF or Missouri. UCSF because it's fabulous and Missouri because I'd have a ready made home. Of course, this isn't necessarily so. Craig's friend (who has money invested in the house) doesn't want animals. Since I can't get rid of the furkids, I think I'm screwed. Ultimately, the issue falls on housing. I should be able to get into nearly any school, it's just whether or not I can afford to live wherever. Blah. And I don't want to live anywhere too uncivilized. Thanks to the Wise and Fearless Devorah, I've decided that area shouldn't be my first consideration, but I'm not moving to the South for God's sake. Ick.

So Friday I drove up to Humboldt State to have a look. It was fabulous, the farthest I've been out of town in ages. It was a mini-road trip, and I loved it. I belong on the open road. There is something that happens when faced with miles and miles of road stretching out before me. I physically and mentally leave the rut that I inhabit. On the road I find proof of life outside my small world, above, below, and beyond my schema of constant money fears, relationship crap, and uncertainty over my future. It's lovely. The destination is secondary to the driving, I savor every moment of exploring life outside my own. The most mundane tasks are new and exciting, each stop for gas is a chance to observe a foreign place and people. Anything different is beautiful. They are all nice places to visit, but I wouldn't want to stay. Sadly, this is how I've felt about Sonoma County since I moved back almost two years ago. On the road I feel at home again, back to the life I once had. I haven't really felt at home since then. I have had an innate dissatisfaction at the thought of living anywhere since I split up with K, nothing felt right. I came back here out of familiarity. Is that ever a good reason to do anything? I've done well for myself since I've been back, but I haven't stopped wishing I were somewhere else. Looking back, I think I've even wished I was someone else, the person I was before life came crashing down. But I can't go back.

Back in Oakdale I worked with a med-tech named Jay. He was ever so cool. He and I worked alone the night I learned it was really ending with K, the night I left a letter of resignation on my moron-boss Elden's desk. Jay had been divorced before and he talked with me before I walked out of wonderful little Oak Valley Hospital for the last time. I was afraid and unsure, beyond broken, and I had no idea where to go from there, what to do, anything. I was totally lost. He said that when it all ends you have to cling to the one thing you have left, and you have to make that your starting point. The one thing I had left was the same as what Jay had, years before; my mind. He threw himself into his education and built a new life for himself starting from there. I did the same, although I was so destitute at that time I had to work for almost a year before I could make it back to my education. It was always my goal though. And so I moved on. I put all of my energy into it, in fact. And here I am. I have a good (despite everything) job, a nice house, I'll be transferring into a 4 year college next year, and I'll have my first degree three years after that. Et voila! A new life. That night at the hospital with Jay I didn't know what to do because nothing felt good, nothing felt right. Jay showed me what I needed to do, how to move forward, and I did. But the part of me that nothing felt right to, that didn't really want any one thing is still there, and I never knew it until I was on the road the other day. The road shattered the walls of trivial, short-term worries and fears that comprise my little world. It opened my horizon, senses, and clarified my vision of myself, if only for a little while. Already I can feel the dullness of my daily life clouding back over. But I can't forget this, I mustn't. I have to find how to unlock the dormancy I live in today and have lived in for the past two years.

fuck

I knew I'd be broke when I checked my balance. I knew the terms would be less than favorable. Little did I know, however, that I'd be totally fucked. See, I'm not very far off at all in the actual checking account. But through the wonders of overdraft fees I'm going to be very, very seriously in the hole. And we all know I'm not seriously enough there. Nope! I need to be even more so! Yay! So what does this mean? It means I'm going to go to those goddamned evil check advance places, probably two of them, take out enough money to pay off the last one and get enough money to live off of for the next week and a half, and keep furthering the cycle. This also means that my hopes of paying off the late bills that I have been putting off paying for months now are once again not going to get paid. Cool, huh? Neither are my mom and dad, if you want to know. And while I'm at it? The utility bills are pretty damned questionable, too. But hey, at least the rent is paid.

I wish I had never discovered the check advance places. They simply prolong the misery. In addition to feeling like a total fuck up loser, you stress while you get one, you stress while waiting to pay for it, then you stress because by nature of needing a check advance in the first place you don't have enough to pay for it when it becomes due. So you do it all over again.

Smashing.

Now, after checking my balance and knowing how fucked I've gotten myself, I have to go attempt to concetrate enough to study for my lame ass math final.

Fuck Everything.

Wocka Wocka Wocka

I'm in love with Fozzy. He's soooo damned small, it's too cute. Since I brought him home friday I have seen him lay down twice, both times for less than a minute. He's either sleeping when I am away or he's not really a kitten kitten bo bitten, but is actually a robot in a fur suit. I'll keep you posted.

So last night after work Craig and I met up with Devorah and her friends for a drink at the Bel. Mmmm, Bel-alicious. I'm afraid Devorah's friends weren't much into the whole college bar thing, but it was fun anyway. As Craig was driving me back to my car, Jason called and wanted to hang out, so off I went. Being that it was Santa Rosa, our options were as follows: 1.) back to the Bel, consume more alcohol and thereby remove driving as an option, or 2.) Carrows. *sigh* It was prom night and so there were approximately 18,000 eleventeen year olds in formal attire. *rolls eyes* While there I observed at least two people I know, but I didn't actually say hi to either. Icky, trashy, yuck-o Shyla was there with her even ickier, trashier, and yuck-o-ier (doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?) husband. Eww. This will mean nothing to anyone but Rachel, I know. But eww, Rachel, ick, huh? Come to think of it the other person I saw won't be familiar to anyone but Rachel, as well. Logan! He was there with a group of people that I imagined were friends from rehab. He looks good! Still thin but not gaunt, you know? Hope he's doing okay. He looked as though he was (for the most part) not thrilled to death with the people he was spending his evening with, but was trying desperately to stay out of trouble and these people were security to him. Poor baby. I'll always remember him at what? 13? Such a sweety. *Sigh* Those years seem like forever ago. I was thinking about Gene today and how what happened affected us all. The world's not the same without him.

music: Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd

Kitten, thy name is Fozzy....

So yesterday was my last ASL class for the semester, right? There's this unbelievably cute girl named Evie in the class, and through her I've been following the growth of her friend's cat's litter o' kittens. One in particular interested me, a little gray male named Allowicious Devadander Abercrombie. The lad supposedly had a home designated for him, but alas, at the last moment he found himself homeless and destined for the pound. Egads! We all know where this is going, so let me just say I picked him up yesterday after school and his name has since been changed to Fozzy. As in Fozzy Bear from the Muppets? Of course. He's tiny, fits in my hand, and oooh so cute. Silver is doing her requisite "nose out of joint" routine, although not too bad. The only time she skipped such formalities was with Lewis, she's always loved him. Anyway, Lewis has adopted him. He adores him! He follows him around, plays with him, and takes it admirably well when Fozzy Allowicious Abercrombie smacks him in the face. Winston, as always, is very mildly curious about him, but for the most part oblivious. Fozzy, on the other hand, is the only cat I have ever ever EVER seen who absolutely loathes Winston. He loved the dog he grew up with, he loves Bailey (of course), but hates Winston. Weird, huh? Oh well, he'll get over it. They always do....

If I could get him to sit still long enough I'd take a picture and post it. The whole thing reminds me of Sly when he was little, I even have the baby food for him. *sigh*

I want breakfast at Latif's. One of these weekends I'm going to drive to Turlock for brunchfast.

I Feel Ill

*wrinkles up nose*

I feel yuck-o. I dunno what's wrong with me, but I feel sick and queasy and tired and blah. It's early, not even 9, and I'm beat. I think I'm dying.

Dahahahahaha!

*snarfle*

So before I moved into my smashing little house I ordered a lot of dog toys for Winston. I ordered them based on how much they entertained me. When I moved and finally had Winston living with me I discovered that he and I have different taste. For example, I got him this chew toy that looks like a big clown smile, big red lips and smiling white teeth. It's somewhat disturbing, but it's a funny idea. When the dog chews on it, he looks as though he has a big, stupid grin. I think it's all very amusing. Sadly, my dog disagrees. My favorite though was a rubber chicken. A rubber chicken! Come on! It's funny! Right? Riggght?!?! I think it's damned hysterical. Well, until the past few days the old boy hasn't thought so, but lately he's been into it. Smashing, no? It's funny to see little rubber chicken legs protruding from his mouth. The most snickerful thing is when he chews on it with just the right rhythm it sounds vaguely reminiscent of the Mr. Clean jingle. You know, *sings* "Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!" Don't act as though you don't understand me...
Yesterday at work our youngest doctor was making rounds and stopped at the bed of a (very) successful local business owner. The guy's retired, but he and his brother started a big burly chain of stores here in Santa Rosa I think, and now the chain is stretched over Northern California. Or something like that. It's big and lucrative, whatever... So I'm walking by to go check vitals on my patients or something and I hear said doctor singing the store's jingle to the patient. He's like "you've heard that one, right?" Naturally I laughed and looked at Trish to see if she was getting the whole situation. She was on the phone with I don't know who and was like "and now Dr. ____ is singing..." The poor guy blushed sheepishly, but it was too late, he managed to be irrevocably cute. It was too funny.

Hey, remember that psych patient that told me if I changed how I wore my hair he'd take me to dinner? I've dubbed him Norman Bates, but really he's not cool enough to be affiliated with Alfred Hitchcock. It was the best I could do in a pinch though. Anyway, poor Trish had the dubious pleasure of meeting our man Norman yesterday. I nearly cried laughing, but he told her he wanted to have coffee with her. Perhaps to sweeten the pot he explained that he gets passes from the psych hospital to venture outside periodically. They could go to Wolf's, he suggested. DAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

music: My Number, Tegan and Sarah

the coolest IM abbreviation EVER...

Spencer Hughes says:
roflasmhitw
Julie says:
*raises an eyebrow*
Spencer Hughes says:
rolling on the floor laughing and smashing my head into the wall.
Julie says:
WOW!!!!
Julie says:
congratulations Spenceroo, you've just made it into my blog again
Spencer Hughes says:
hehehe
Spencer Hughes says:
nice!!!

another wonderful Gregor Dahhlink link....

http://www.steamerbean.com/leisuretown/


soooooo very cool...

in my head for like three days...

Yo listen up here's a story
About a little guy that lives in a blue world
And all day and all night and everything he sees
Is just blue
Like him inside and outside
Blue his house with a blue little window
And a blue Corvette
And everything is blue for him
And himself and everybody around
Cause he ain't got nobody to listen

I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa
I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa

I have a blue house with a blue window
Blue is the colour of all that I wear
Blue are the streets and all the trees are too
I have a girlfriend and she is so blue
Blue are the people here that walk around
Blue like my Corvette, it's in and outside
Blue are the words I say and what I think
Blue are the feelings that live inside me

I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa
I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa

I have a blue house with a blue window
Blue is the colour of all that I wear
Blue are the streets and all the trees are too
I have a girlfriend and she is so blue
Blue are the people here that walk around
Blue like my Corvette, it's in and outside
Blue are the words I say and what I think
Blue are the feelings that live inside me

I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa
I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa

Inside and outside
Blue his house with a blue little window
And a blue Corvette
And everything is blue for him and himself
And everybody around
Cause he ain't got nobody to listen

I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa
I'm Blue da ba dee da ba daa..

So the icky people living next door to me are doing I don't know what to their house. It all began with the front door and an old television being moved outside with a sign that said "free." They're still there, and it's right up there with the famous garbage shrines of Cloverdale. Next, one of said icky people began walking 'round on the roof all the time. In all fairness, he may be the only one living there, he's the only one I ever see. The last couple of days, there has been a huge plumbing truck sitting outside for hours at a time. This morning at 7:18 there was lots of talking and yelling and several big booms, after which I seriously considered walking over and asking them sweetly to shut the fuck up. I realized, of course, that they wouldn't have obliged, and so I then seriously considered letting all the air out of their tires late at night when I come home from work. I've never done it before but I've certainly seen it done, and I could do it. The trick with letting air from tires is that you have to do all four, or a minimum of three if you're really in a pinch. It has to be clear that it was intentional or it defeats the purpose. Anyway, the booms and yelling (some of it) stopped, and I managed to go back to sleep. I just woke up to find a big stupid tractor thing, I believe it is referred to as a "backhoe." *shivers with disgust* Why are so many tractors orange? Couldn't they think of a better color? I hate orange. Is it really necessary? I'll grant you that the majority of the people operating such atrocities aren't exactly the most...well, they just aren't the most. But aesthetics can make everyday life more palatable. It's bad enough that in a society where we have microchips that can fit through the eye of a needle we haven't found a better way to move dirt than big, noisy, stupid tractors. *sigh* So uncivilized.

But maybe I'm just bitter. I've decided that the booms and yelling early this morning were most likely the obnoxious orange tractor thing being unloaded from its truck or trailer or whatever. Ugh. Well, I hope that the whole "digging up the front yard" endeavor is worth it. No I don't, who am I fooling? I hope that the "digging up the front yard" thing is actually part of a police investigation looking for the corpses of missing people. It'd be very exciting, you know.

I need coffee, don't I?

blogger envy

Have you ever inspired anyone to create a blogger (or two)? Recently (sorta) I have inspired two of them. I am very proud of this fact. And you know? Both of the friends I've inspired have turned out to be effulgent (look it up) writers. Absolutely glorious. It's wonderful, I adore reading them, and if I inspire anyone else, let me know so I can add it to my list. I think, however, that they're both putting me to shame. But somehow it's okay... It's all a work in progress.

I'm beat. I cannot possibly wait for this semester to end. *sigh* One more week.

I Heart Cosmopolitans

I went out with Trish tonight, it was absolutely sublime. I wondered at the last minute if I really wanted to go, I was ever so tired, but I made myself and it was ecstasy. The legal kind, nonetheless. Or primarily so, anyway. I saw lots of people, that bouncer guy that always hugs and kisses me when I see him, I have no idea where I know him from, but I know it's from somewhere, I saw Kiki and Will, who was just recently cooking for Nine Inch Nails, I saw egads, I don't even remember all of 'em, but most importantly I saw Zack. I know this won't mean anything to any of you, none of my Zack-era friends read this blog, but I love Zack, I always have. I remember the first time I ever saw him, I heard some guy yell "my penis is pierced, anyone wanna see?" And there he was. Cut him a break, we were teenagers back then... Zack and I have always been friends, I always believed in him and he was always good to me. He's had his ups and downs, maybe more downs than ups, but he's doing great. He's majoring in linguistics, going to Germany to study the language next spring. I'm so proud of him. I just adore him, that's all.
******
You know how in artsy movies the most random, bizarre, and yet strangely everyday thing happens to the hero/heroine and they learn all sorts of cool things from whatever it was? I think that the beauty of me is that I can see those things in my own life. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes. And I think that's more than the average person cares to see.
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I was hit on tonight more than I have been in a long while. It was lovely. In a unrelated note, do you ever think to yourself of all the wonderful, sincere complements people give you that you take for granted? I thought about it tonight as I drove home. Funny how they are strangely absent from my mind the rest of the time when I am busy beating my psyche into a pulp.

You know? I wish the dashboard for this blog would correctly tell me how many posts I've created. Blah. Last time I saved it, it came out to be like 90-something pages, but that was a while ago, and who knows how many posts?

I am sooooo very happy school is coming to an end. Psychology will be done tomorrow and ASL is basically done today. We're having a little shmoozefest next week, but there's no stress there. Keen, huh? I adore that class, it's turned out great. Can't wait for ASL2. *sigh* I'm stressed as hell about math, I don't need the class but I don't need it to drop my gpa, either. And english, ohhh God. I don't even want to start on that one. It's interesting that someone who loves writing as much as I do and can write reasonably well would have such an absolutely excrutiating time in such a class. I think the fact that it's taught by an utter moron in a ridiculously inept online system could have something to do with it, but that isn't all of it. Ohh, if I don't like my grade and I have to retake it I'm going to flip out. Argh.

So this is my first real weekend in almost a month. I haven't had more than one day off in a row in that long, somehow. It's exhausting, and let me tell 'ya...you throw in the sinus infection I've had for the last week and the lack of regular nightshift people this week and I was ready to go for an application at McDonald's yesterday. GRR! I loathe two of the three people I worked with yesterday and the day before too. But that's another blog for another blogsite. *wink*

Maybe at some point this weekend I'll write something profound. So far though it isn't looking good.

*smile*

wow...

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)

Carnitas Dog

I've decided, under the advice of his father, to make Winston into carnitas. He's been pushing it lately with the wanting to play ball all the time and obscene guilt trips. Today was the final straw though. Not once but twice I came home to find garbage strewn throughout the house. Fabulous. Boy, I'll tell 'ya. Nothing beats working all day and coming home to a house with icky disgusting garbage all over the carpet. *sigh* It's bliss, just bliss. And so yes, carnitas it is. It always was my favorite, anyway.

Today I was listening to one of my older patients talking about the senior complex where he and his "senile" wife live. It's funny, he refers to her as senile without a moment's pause, like it's nothing at all. What a bastard. You know what? I'd go senile too, living with him. Sorry, that's another blog. Anyway, he was talking about this party at "the rec. hall." The way he phrased it, "rec. hall" sounded so...old. I began to think about old people in general and especially the ones that live in complexes and communities specifically for seniors. The people I'm thinking of are caught in the past and are fearful and loathing of the present. They seem to sequester themselves into their weird, dull communities. They live in their 70's decor homes with weird objet d'art (aka knick knacks) such as glass grapes collecting dust on the shelves. They speak their strange World War II language (hence rec. hall) and cloister themselves in a world without diversity, technology, and loud music. Ick. I wonder why they choose to remain in the times they do. Like, why is the house still done in the 70's style? Why not 80's or 50's or something less...goldenrod? Was the 70's so fabulous? What must it be like to feel to at odds with the rest of the world?

Perhaps most profound of all...will we ever be there? God I hope not.

I spoke to my little sweetpea last night at UCSF. He's doing great! He's a little uncomfortable with normal post-surgery stuff, but he's doing beautifully nonetheless. Marisol and I prayed that God would be with the surgeon doing it and it would be a perfect kidney. Well you know? It worked. The kidney came from a 24 year old boy, it was perfect, according to the surgeon. I asked my boy about the doc and he was like "It was the strangest thing, he was so cool, like my best friend! It was like he was sent or something." I told him he was sent, that Marisol and I had prayed for it. And it's true. Cool, very cool. I am so deliriously happy with the whole situation.

It's a good thing, I need something to be happy about.

Happy May Day!

Yayy! A totally unimportant, worthless holiday! Hot damn! In order to properly celebrate such a momentous occasion, I will now recite a lovely poem given to me by my pal Susan.


*ahem*


Hooray Hooray
'Tis the first of May!
Sex outdoors begins today!

-Susan Dickson

*borrows the small bow from Stacy Without an E and exits blog*