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So I've gotten this new crazy idea in my head, and I figured I should confer with the peanut gallery on what to do.
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Work, work, work...
Apr. 23rd, 2007 10:38 amSo I got a job. Yay job!
I work as a telemarketer.
Less yay. :P Good days tend not to happen when you call people 8 hours straight. Still, it's a good job, because as someone put it: "It's perfect for you. You love to talk and make people try to like you." A little harsh, but apt.
I feel awful about neglecting this again. I've had a lot going on these past few months... and I meant to update! I meant to do more than I did, but that's how it always goes.
Anyway, my To Do List:
- find an apartment.
- be a CHEERFUL telemarketer.
- stop sucking as a person.
- find an effective way to stop sucking as a person instead of driving to Baltimore and hoping that my problems just kind of fix themselves.
- really, really, really find an apartment. If I live with my mother this summer, I will shoot myself.
- look into getting another job. I have 3 days off a week, that should be enough to get in some part-time hours.
- MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF MY MOM'S HOUSE. *flail*
- Maybe apply at Wal-Mart? Employee discount FTW?
I work as a telemarketer.
Less yay. :P Good days tend not to happen when you call people 8 hours straight. Still, it's a good job, because as someone put it: "It's perfect for you. You love to talk and make people try to like you." A little harsh, but apt.
I feel awful about neglecting this again. I've had a lot going on these past few months... and I meant to update! I meant to do more than I did, but that's how it always goes.
Anyway, my To Do List:
- find an apartment.
- be a CHEERFUL telemarketer.
- stop sucking as a person.
- find an effective way to stop sucking as a person instead of driving to Baltimore and hoping that my problems just kind of fix themselves.
- really, really, really find an apartment. If I live with my mother this summer, I will shoot myself.
- look into getting another job. I have 3 days off a week, that should be enough to get in some part-time hours.
- MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF MY MOM'S HOUSE. *flail*
- Maybe apply at Wal-Mart? Employee discount FTW?
Here's one for the oddity files.
Jun. 22nd, 2006 05:17 pmDuring the last ten minutes, while plotting out ideas for a fic, I have taken a Sharpie and put dots on the back of every nickel in this drawer.
That's a lot of damn nickels. And I've caught myself writing on walls with this thing, too. For instance, when I step out of my shower every morning... afternoon... whenever I get up, I'm greated with the message from Callahan's Place.
(I think I got the phrasing switched around, I'm not sure which comes first.)
As you can imagine, this has led to a bit of consternation on my mother's part.
"Why did you write on your wall? And your shoes? And your jeans?"
"I honestly have no clue. It seemed like a good form of expression at the time. And, when you think about the concept of graffiti-" I admit, I was pulling things out of my ass at that point, as she had that nasty bulging vein going in her forehead "Expressing yourself, how you feel, what you think... isn't that what you've always encouraged me to do? To be myself?"
"I don't want you being yourself all over your new gray Chuck Taylors."
She had the extremely good rebuttal of taking all my pocket money, my car keys, my cell phone, and confiscating all my sharpies -- leaving me with what is soon to be her very great chagrin, a laptop, an Internet connection, and a desire for vengeance.
This shall not be born. *ponders best way to format a poster saying My Mother is a Stupid Wench Who Dates Oddly Weasel-Faced Men With Bad Hair*
On second thought, that might not be anonymous enough. *vanishes, to plot some more.*
That's a lot of damn nickels. And I've caught myself writing on walls with this thing, too. For instance, when I step out of my shower every morning... afternoon... whenever I get up, I'm greated with the message from Callahan's Place.
Shared pain is lessened, shared joy is increased.
(I think I got the phrasing switched around, I'm not sure which comes first.)
As you can imagine, this has led to a bit of consternation on my mother's part.
"Why did you write on your wall? And your shoes? And your jeans?"
"I honestly have no clue. It seemed like a good form of expression at the time. And, when you think about the concept of graffiti-" I admit, I was pulling things out of my ass at that point, as she had that nasty bulging vein going in her forehead "Expressing yourself, how you feel, what you think... isn't that what you've always encouraged me to do? To be myself?"
"I don't want you being yourself all over your new gray Chuck Taylors."
She had the extremely good rebuttal of taking all my pocket money, my car keys, my cell phone, and confiscating all my sharpies -- leaving me with what is soon to be her very great chagrin, a laptop, an Internet connection, and a desire for vengeance.
This shall not be born. *ponders best way to format a poster saying My Mother is a Stupid Wench Who Dates Oddly Weasel-Faced Men With Bad Hair*
On second thought, that might not be anonymous enough. *vanishes, to plot some more.*
