I am really fucking tired this AM. Long, academic type day yesterday (8AM to 11PM), up at 5 to walk my pooch in Arctic air, and now, the day ahead. I swear to all the heavens that it would feel like sunshine shining right out of his ass if that worthless weatherman could raise the temperature in this part of the world by 20 degrees or so, somewhere around, I don't know, normal?
The bastard. What a great fucking job, being a meteorologist. Can anyone out there think of another career where you are paid high five to mid six figures to be that wrong that often? (Incidentally, the BEST job in that field has to in and around San Diego . . . "What's it going to be like today, Jim?" . . . "Uh . . . Nice! Back to you, Bob!" Smug pricks. In my field, one mistake of comparable magnitude and I would spend the rest of my life unemployed and/or in prison, and I'll never make half what they do.)
So it goes. I'll bitch, but I'll never complain.
Speaking of which, what are we going to do about the damn automated callers? My landline is bad enough, but now my cell? How the fuck does an ad agency or Super-Pac even have a right to access my numbers? I am on EVERY fucking "Do Not Call" list on the internet. Worthless law. And its not even a real person anymore; lately its been some computer calling herself Rebecca. At least I could have a laugh with a real person: "Who? Larry? Sorry, my dick's in his mouth right now. I'll have him call you back in 20." Click. Giggles, and on with my day. I suppose I could talk to Rebecca about by collection of blue tooth enabled sex toys, but its not the same.
Seriously? A computer? Outsourcing, I guess. Real people probably bitch about being sexually harassed by the people they call.
And I was called out in a big way yesterday. Yes, on the surface I appear a mass of walking contradictions, but your perception of my appearance is (no offense) not a concern of mine. So yes, I am heavily inked and well-dressed. Why are the two mutually exclusive? The color of my button-down shirt did in fact match the shoelaces in my Converse, the black canvas matched the cardigan, and the white slacks looked slick with my leather belt and "Drink, Fight, Fuck" buckle. Dress up isn't only for pin-ups, asshole!
Wait . . . I shouldn't care. Something else to work on in therapy, I guess. Maybe their problem is a Midwest thing. In another region, perhaps my idiosyncrasies wouldn't even register.
Normal. Never been there. Not sure how I'd feel about it, actually, or if I could get any of my few nearest and dearest to come along.
Because there are things I dig and will not apologize for:
Cooking. Wine. Nature programs. Flowers. Bondage. Peanut Butter. (The last two aren't mutually exclusive, either). The smell of crayons. Trails. "Accidental" exhibitionism. Writing. Smearing circles of blue paint all over my body and running naked on the trails behind my house in the moonlight howling like a Celt to train for marathons. (Good workout, as you have to run fast enough to stay out of Taser range, and the psych ward, because let's be honest: when you're scared, you run as fast as you have to.) Vinyl. Animals. Furries. (And the last two ARE mutually exclusive.) Unfiltered expressions I will think twice about and forget with more sleep.
You know. That kind of shit.
You may be wondering how much is bullshit, how much isn't. All I can say is that's not a problem I have.
May your day be full of surprises! See you tomorrow.
B.
