Pure Sugar
18 November 1998
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Pure Sugar
18 November 1998
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6:45 PM: The sad truth is that it was quite a feat today to actually get up and start to get ready at 11:30 AM!! Woo! Well. I did at least have time to eat breakfast and take the bus to work, which means walking 7 blocks and some actual exposure to air and sun and people and all of those good things. It was all done so I could get here in time for a meeting with some people trying to sell us software. zzzzzzzzzzzz.
And while this meeting dragged on and on like Congressional testimony, what were they serving for Snack! outside? Yes. Gummi worms. And were there any left by the time we were paroled? No, of course not. I will never recommend that sofware product now, I thought.
Later, I am going out to the coffee bar for more of it, passing the empty snack basket with a kind of forlorn poke, just to see if anything was hidden under the paper lining. But no, no worms. No cream, either. Sheesh. Time to go raid the downstairs coffee bar. So I do.
Their whole basket was full! Well, no more than half empty, for sure! Who are these people? Do they need less junk because it's not as cold? Has a cultural difference developed now that we have migrated to our separate islands? Could we ever really learn to communicate with beings who turn down snacks?
All that for later, though. I just stole a handful and left. They didn't have any cream either. I ended up having to use these packets of CoffeeMate, which is not only tedious but inadequate.
I'm sorry for the trivial crankiness but it's this cold wind blowing right down my neck, it's making me nuts. Especially with my neck being so freshly haircut-naked.
9:11: Had London Calling going through my head medley-style all day today. It's a relief to be able to finally hear it externally where it belongs. Working for the clampdown. You betcha. Gitalong now.
In other news, everything seems like a gigantic waste of time. I've read a couple of entries by different people talking about depression lately. Such florid language, in a way it's a bit surprising that a seriously depressed person could find the energy for it. But I kind of remember that symptom. You pour yourself into words, or painting, or a book or a glass, because you can, it's safe in there, and as much as it might involve thinking about being depressed, for the duration of the involving moments you can somewhat escape actually being depressed. (Today seems to be my day for really really really long sentences. Excuse me.)
Dunno why that's not operating as much for me anymore. Too many words all the same, maybe. Story's too old. Story's over, anyways. (Not that there won't continue to be straight-to-video sequels for years yet, don't get me wrong.)
I haven't the faintest idea what kind of person I seem to be, you know. Do you? Know who you seem to be, I mean. I've always thought that how others see you is kind of important. Maybe more so than who you think you are. Not that one is "right" and the other "wrong". Words, words, feh. All I mean is, whatever it is you think I'm doing, it'd probably be news to me. Unless you think I'm just killing time, that part I knew about.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff. The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne. | ||||
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