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Diaryland is da bomb I just *have* to tell you how much this all sucks. Who're these other people he's writing about? Who's the freak writing this, anyway? What's gone before. What's going on right now? Where do *you* visit on the web? What're you building right now?


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Another smart-assed remark from Mike
Vampires use needles, not teeth
22:00:00 on 2000-01-10

Remeron ® Day 4 Remeron ®

Feeling:

Tired. My mind is elsewhere. Where, I don't know, but not here. It's far away, in a better place, or time, or something. This isn't a complete 180 degree turn from yesterday, but it's at least 135 or so.

Part of it is that I'm sick of things as they are. I want more progress before its time has come.

Part of it is that Moogie's been home most of the day sick, and I can't stand listening to somebody coughing up lungs or sucking snot all day (I wish she'd just choke on a big lump and be done with it, personally).

Part of it is the Chinese stuff that Xander and I are still wrestling, after thirteen freaking months. (Is there no end to the abuse? How many Chinese-speaking people are going to be surfing the web to buy a multimillion dollar wind turbine, anyway?)

Part of it is that Crafty is down, so I am down, too.

And then there are these damned pills, but don't even let me get started.

Listening:

"Dueling Banjos" from "Deliverance". Fear me.

I wish I could play a musical instrument. I'd settle for banjo, even.

Wondering:

What does General Motors call the Chevy Nova in Spanish-speaking countries? I mean, really, let's think about it - in Spanish, "no va" means "doesn't go".
Like Everclear's song "Amphetamine" says: "Just take your pill, and everything will be all right". What a joke.

I don't know if this medication is working. They said it was supposed to be fast-acting, but funny, I don't feel much better. In fact, I feel remarkably bitchy. I'm sick of the world, I'm sick of everything and everybody in it. It all seems so damned pointless.

Then again, it could just be aggravation from things in the world around me.

It all started with the Vampire Woman...


I rolled into the lot of the Alvin MHMRA center at about 8:00 AM, ten minutes before my appointment to get some blood drawn so they can check... whatever it is they check. (They told me I never had to come back to this location. The nerve.) Finally, I'm showing up without having to rush and worry that they have passed me. I'm surprised I made it, given the morning traffic.

Hey, I think to myself, maybe they can even take me early! Keep dreaming. I just wanted out of there so I could eat, they told me not to eat anything after midnight, so I was definitely breakfast-deprived.

Walking into the relatively crowded waiting area I realize that yes, people do actually come here for services. I sign in on the lab work sheet and sit down.

Most of the people in the waiting area are in their late thirties to forties look a little disheveled and frayed around the edges. I hope to myself I don't look like I fit in with them. (Aren't I awful?, I have to think to myself for even thinking that.)

Apparently they've all been coming here a while, and often; they seem to know each other, since they call each other by name and talk about what they've been doing in their lives recently. I sit and stare out the window across from me, wishing they'd get to me, and listen to their conversation. It finally dawns on me that they come here a lot because they're being treated for HIV by the county.

Finally around 8:35 the woman calling names at the door to the back decides it'd be a good idea to take mine this morning. (Appointment times don't mean much to these people, apparently.) I wander through the door to the back offices and turn into a door.

The woman who called me gestures at a chair and says, "there's the seat of honor." I smile weakly, take off my coat, sit down, lay my arm out on the table in front of the lab tech and wince.

"What's the matter?" the lab tech asks me, as she swabs alcohol on my arm.

"I hate needles." You'd think somebody who, on occasion, cuts himself, wouldn't be bothered by needles. But I am. Desperately. Probably something to do with the fact that a lot of my earliest memories were from people sticking me with various things. I was a sickly thing until I was about three. Now I hardly ever get sick. Pretty weird, 'eh?

"I'd be pretty worried about you if you liked them. Make a fist for me."

I think I'm going to pass out. I look away as she puts the needle into my arm. All that's going through my head is: Stay conscious. Think about baseball... think about baseball... odd that this is one of those times when you'd want to "think about baseball." Hey, you don't even like baseball... I wonder if the new stadium downtown is almost done? Can you believe they spent all that money for a new baseballs stadium when they could have spent the money on...

"Okay, we're done. Are you going to be okay?" Door and Paperwork Woman asks.

"We're done?" I ask, disbelievingly. I mean, I remember shots hurting more than this. "Yeah, I'll be fine." My rising from the chair unsteadily defies that, though.

"Yeah, we're done. Let me put a band aid on that."

Next stop: Jack In the Box.


I'm not sure if things are finished with Gurugrrl or not.

She comes online, she's quiet for a while. I have the impression that I am bothering her or something, so I don't approach her, I let her make the decision if she wants to talk or not.

When she finally does talk, it's just something short like "hi" or something.

Finally, while I went offline to do something, I came back and she told me "maybe I'm right" and perhaps this isn't going to work out.

Sigh.

I guess she can't believe me, that like her, my mind spends most of its time shattered into a hundred pieces vying with one another to be the foreground process. I feel many ways on any topic, and sometimes it's hard to make a distinction between what I wish things were and how they are. But there it is.


I finally finished the information that Xander needed for the Chinese website. I have to admit, about half were tiny problems, although two of the missing pages were ones I just forgot to do. Sigh. A third missing page was because, I swear, the head of the project at the client site told me verbally on the phone that we didn't need to do that page. But I did it anyway.

I love it when a client puts a comment on a page like "all wrong." Generally, they're not happy with the bolding or italicization on the page or something. However, "all wrong" doesn't explain this. It's snide, it's snippy. They figure they can do that because they're paying for it.

So I countered for that file in my response document:

  • "All wrong" is hardly a helpful comment.
    The text has been checked against the Microsoft Word files provided by <client>'s translators, and is correct as stands in the Microsoft Word files. For corrections, contact your translators.

I.e., eat me.

I also made a point of putting in the document that every time I have to touch these files from now on costs hourly. I'm sick of this project, and if they have to take three months between revisions then they can damned well pay for them.

I have this sneaking feeling they think I can read Mandarin. Silly humans.

restlessmind


Ancient history:
2013-03-01"You'll be stone dead in a moment!"
2007-08-07I covet fuck you money
2007-07-16My own long, dark tea-time of the soul
2007-07-11My internet experience is lacking
2007-07-10Coincidence



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