Thursday, March 31, 2005
I don't know what is going to happen tomorrow, and I'm scared. I mean really. And I know I'm a perfectionist, and that nothing is ever going to be as good as I want it to be, but I'm still scared.
I'm also scared not that I will totally screw this up, but that certain people from my school-job thing like that "Sophie" (not her real name). It's open to the public, so I can't stop her from coming, but... I just don't want her to.
Sophie's the type of person around whom you NEVER want to present ANYTHING that isn't all about how great she is. You can just *tell* that she is making mental notes about how you just contradicted yourself, you mispronounced something, you just used the wrong word, etc., along with how you should have looked better, blah, blah, blah. And the crappy part is, most of the time, she's just talking out of her butt to have something to say to look intelligent. And she will try to argue with you when you try to defend yourself, painting you into a corner where you either just give up and politely say "ok, point taken", or you start raving like a mad bitch--either way *you* look bad.
So I'm scared she's going to come. And Miss Nastypants.
Or maybe I'm just looking for something to worry about. I'm just scared, that's all.
My sister told me last night that I don't have to take questions from anyone other than my committee during my presentation. At least that's good. So I have to find a way to politely tell Sophie to put a sock in it until the end. Deep in my heart, I think she'll be there; it would be so exactly like her, and she seems to have a problem with me anyway, so I'm sure she wouldn't give up the opportunity to restock "Ancodia Sucks And Is So Stupid Because..." ammo. I mean, she already talks about me behind my back, already tries to make me look bad; she points out in meetings all of the stuff that I don't do, or said I'd do and didn't (or changed, etc...); what she's too stupid to realise is that all of that is between me and my manager, and my manager already knows. So her dumb crap fails for all of the people it needs to (me and my manager), but other people in my lab group walk away with opinions that I don't know. They may think I am a total retard, like she tries to make me appear to be.
I don't care what other people think of me. As long as I'm ok with my employer, my instructors, and myself (and my Significant Other when I have one), I don't give a damn what The Man (or Sophie) On The Street thinks. Only the important people count. And I keep telling myself that, and living my life that way, but emotionally, this stuff still is hurtful. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't.
Yeah, I'm the dip who actually obeyed when her elementary school teachers told her, "just do your own work, and don't worry about what Sophie thinks". And I don't understand why the Sophies of the world always pick me as their target. Because I don't give them the reaction they want? Maybe.
Regardless... I'm still nervous that she might take the opportunity to show up (or Miss Nastypants, or someone else who is just going to be hateful).
I'm just scared.
And I haven't even touched on how I'm getting no help from my advisor. No prep run-through, no pep talk, no nothing. She hasn't even read Magnificent Octopus yet. This isn't normal, I'm told. So I'm scared there, too. She says it's because she knows I've done a really good job, and I don't need her as much as others, & so forth, but... How much I need her isn't totally all of the point; how scared I am is part of the point, too. I have to do another Magnificent Octopus in about three years, and I'll be damned if I'm using the same person; I'll rot in hell first. I need more help. I don't know all of this. Everyone seems to think that I do. Or, my advisor does, at least. When she told me yesterday that she still hadn't read it, I just said "ok" like the stupid moron I am. But, really...what else could I say?
Ok; I have to get back to work and stop thinking this way or I will start crying.
After this is over tomorrow, I am going to do something very, very nice for myself. I'm not sure what yet. But something.
In the words of Vince VanPatten: What a debacle!
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Friday, March 25, 2005
I'm still typing. My head hurts, my neck and back are in an absolute spasm--I mean literally; I could crack walnuts on my shoulders. My brain is BLANK, and...
I'm bored. I hate doing this. This is no longer a labour of love. I have other things I want to do, other things I want to think about, other...
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
I'm adaptable. And resourceful. And if not smart, at least not stupid. Or, I'm smart in some things, and really totally lobotomised in others. But so are most people, I guess. And I'm a reasonably hard worker at most things (ok, well, an obsessive worker at a few things, diligent at most, and an absolute fuck-off on a few other things--see? bell-shaped curve again...).
My point is, I'm not a bad person. I'm not a psychotic bitch, or a bunny-brained bimbo who needs to be treated like this. So why do it?
Can you tell I'm obsessing over this? It's because it's so prototypical of 99 and 44/100 % of my relationships. And I've been out of a relationship for a while, and this stuff just reminded me why.
Why do women get rewarded for bad behaviour?
If I were a bunny brain, he would have not pushed like he did.
This is the same thing going on as the flat tire comparison...one ex-bf left me stranded to change my own tire. I didn't think anything of it; I just called him, said I had a flat and might be too late and dirty to do anything but I'd hurry. I changed my tire, jetted over to where I was supposed to be, cleaned up quickly in the bathroom (just the sort of thing has always made me feel like Ramona Quimby, for reasons I'll not bother to think about), and voila! Or voila tout, rather. No one cared, and ex-bf was annoyed that I was late.
Around a few months-ish later, I'm riding with a friend. Tire goes flat. I get out to help her change it, but she's on her cell phone, talking to her bf, and starting to cry. She doesn't want me to touch it, because she is not sure what to do. [Ed. note: Huh?] I can't deal with hysterical crying (I can deal with crying just fine; I can't deal with the hysterical crying, throwing shit, hyperventilating, and all that crap if you're not being chased by a spree killer), so I just shut the hell up. Bf comes, changes the tire, and has to take her right away to get a new tire, because she is afraid to drive her car with the tiny temporary tire. Why? It's "too small", and doesn't "look right". O-kay, then. Bf and Fluffernut go in his car, and Ancodia, having volunteered, pilots the S.S. Deathtrap.
Ok; the temptation to pull a bunny-brained "But I don't want to drive the big, scary thing!" and leave him totally stuck was almost overwhelming. He deserved it, in my opinion. I'm just too nice.
We get to Ye Olde Tyre Shoppe, and bf is not only responsible for putting the damn temporary tire on, but he also pays for her new tire! And listens to her whine about how scared she was, and comforts her!
I remember all too clearly how I was: outraged, irritated, amazed, baffled...and jealous. All at once. Just privately. I mean, I'm sure I looked normal, but... I was in total shock. What the hell?!? She didn't just escape from Freddy Krueger, dude; it was a fricking flat tire. I personally have just classified her as a Drama Queen; he's rewarding her for this nonsense!
There is injustice in this world, iff'n you haven't noticed.
I'm just trying to figure out how to not always be on the short-stick end of this injustice. Sheesh.
I need to be writing my Magnificent Octopus clean-up, but instead wasted about three hours on what was supposed to be a thirty-minute discussion about computers. I don't get why some men are so stubborn. I was getting help from someone I know; we were IMing while I was at the website. I tried to say at first, as politely as possible, that I don't personally prefer to deal with this particular company. I just don't like them. The one experience I had trying to order from them over the phone with a corporate discount was frustrating enough that, in the middle of ordering, I just said "forget it" and hung up, albeit politely. I think they are a pack of scam artists and undertrained reps. In short, through Eviljob I get a corporate discount. On our Personnel site (it has a name, but that would give it away), there is a blurb from this computer company to the effect of, "give this code, and get a certain percentage off of personal computer and peripheral purchases". Ok? Easy enough, right? Wrong. First, they tell me there is no such offer. Then I get put on hold while doofus checks. Then they say that's online orders only. Then I get put back on hold while doofus checks again. Then they say it's only for purchases made with the corporate card. Then I get put back on hold...ad infinitum. Finally, as I'm struggling to open the cap on my Geritol, Doofus' Supervisor decides it actually *is* a discount I can use, paying with my own money, and over the phone, too. You know--kind of like the original blurb said?
So, ok. I start the ordering process. I come out with a total. Is that with or before the discount? I get put back on hold. He comes back. New total; the previous one was without the discount. Ok, since it's a difference of $x, then I would like to add a thingamabob. Ok; we add the thingamabob. New total is significantly higher than it should be. Did the corporate discount drop off? No. Ok...what's accounting for the huge price change, then? That's just the price. Could you check? No. Ok, take the thingamabob off. The new total is $x. Higher than the price before...this is without the discount. No--it includes the discount. No it doesn't; yes, it does. I would like to speak with whomever you have been consulting in managing the addition of this corporate discount because, frankly, I'm not convinced you are correct. You can't. Why not? You just can't. Ok, I would like to speak with your Supervisor. You can't. Why not? He said he does not want to be bothered with anything about this order again. Truthfully, I've worked in a call centre environment before, and that sounds more like an action against you than me; please put your Supervisor on the phone. No. Why not? Listen; it's only $x. I sell systems all day long where I don't have to haggle over $x. Why are you making such a big deal about it? I'm making a big deal about it, because *your* company chose to put an offer on *my* company's Personnel site offering this discount; so far in this conversation, you have tried seven ways to Sunday to talk me out of using it, now it's not being added, and you are lying and telling me that it is when it clearly isn't.
And so on.
Finally, I just gave up. I know that, probably, the doofus didn't know how to add it, or something. Maybe he was just hired the day before. I don't know and, by the time I got off the phone, I didn't care. I ended up gladly paying a couple hundred more elsewhere. And I decided to steer clear of this company.
So now fast-forward a few years, and this guy I know wants me to order from them. It's online, so ok. I agree to go to the site and at least look.
Three hours of haggling with him later, of politely trying to say I don't care to deal with these dillweeds, I'm getting ready to purchase. Ancodia has given up; she knows when people aren't listening, and she's conceded.
Then *HE* decides Ancodia should not purchase. Huh?
Like this whole thing has been an exercise in "can I get you to jump when I say jump"? Which is typical of way too many of my relationships. This is what I get for being reasonable. Or at least able to be reasoned with.
I really wanna know why this is.
I try to be nice. I try to be adaptable. I try to not complain, not whine, not ask for things. There is no reward in that. I'm not going to stop, but still... Why does it seem that people, especially men, seem to seek out where I'm going to draw the line and try to push me over? And then, like what happened tonight, drag me back? If we'd had more time, he probably would have switched on me again. That's how I feel, at least.
I just don't get it.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Oh--wait; that's not me. :-)
I hope everything is ok tomorrow. I really, really do. 'Cos I don't know if I can take it if it isn't.
Oop. Got ahead of myself there.
I meant that I will finish writing the parts that need it, anticipate the corrections, change them, get the real corrections, fix those, and re-submit. Woof, baby.
I am so organised, it's frightening.
Heh. As if.
Friday, March 11, 2005
At least there's some benefit to this hair and skin.
I'm sorry...did *I* just make that sarcastic snicker? My bad.
I have to type more stuff, and somehow get in 16 hrs at Eviljob over the weekend. Big thing due Monday. And stuff overdue in one of my classes, but they're going to have to cope. 'Cos god knows I'm not. Sigh.
I have a lot of references to god for an agnostic. Heh. The irony of life.
I met with one of my former profs today; if he's not Number One Fave Of All Time, he's for sure in the top 1.5. :-) This is someone I have known since my undergrad days, and he's awesome. Very intelligent, unprejudiced, interested in everything, fun to talk to, kind, very funny, patient... I went to talk to him for maybe fifteen minutes, and ended up there for over two hours, and I didn't notice! Neither did he, but that's one of the things that make him so awesome. Everytime I go to talk with him, I feel like he has nothing else to do. :-) I think he does, too. :-D He gets an amazing amount done, though. Somehow. I wish I could pull that off. He's a former head of department for a...let's say "soft science" field I minored in as an undergrad. In general, I tend toward being hard (well, hard*er*) science, but I completely feel that the things he does are just as, if not more, important. I just say that because of an attitude in our department (and others). Everyone is so goddamned elitist, you know? I guess it's a way of reassuring yourself that you've made good life decisions, but seeing as how I deeply like people in other fields, I don't have a lot of tolerance for that kind of elitism. I can't see how anyone could not like this guy; he really is thoughtful, very insightful, an excellent conversationalist (I mean truly above reproach!), he both understands and generates successful and appropriate allusions, he is open to suggestions, and is tolerant of the learning process--I mean, he doesn't just give up on you if you can't grasp a complex concept out of the gate... Why can't all men be like this?
Yeah, I do. For a really long time, too.
Yeah, I know I am. Really big time a lot.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
So whatever. I'll look on line at Staples (not Office Whateverinthehell...they're on my shit list right now) or eBay, or something. I hate getting totally ignored; that's why, after probably upwards of fifty visits over the course of a few years, last year I solemnly vowed to never set foot inside a Home Depot again. And I shan't.
What I consider to be Home Depot's crowning achievement was a few years ago, when I was helping with teambuilding exercises for Eviljob. They were these dumbo exercises through some vendor that were inane, butsoanyway. One of them involves some rope and those little clips everyone puts their keys on that are aluminum, and in all different colours, and the cute little label on them warns not to engage in mountain climbing with them, or somesuch.
What spoilsports. Butsoanyway...
Some rat bastard stole our rope and clips. We'd set up different activity points at this section of a nearby park we'd rented for two weeks (to take all the building's teams through; we figured they'd like getting outdoors, and 99% of them did). So we set up our "radioactive waste" exercise (don't even ask; it's soooooo freaking dumb) off over *there*. When we went to do it, the ropes and clips were thefted. Can you believe the nerve of some people?!?
My thinking was that we scrap the dumbass exercises and go on a manhunt for the sick creep that did it; I figured he was probably somewhere nearby, trying to tie a squirrel up and clip it to a picnic grill so that he could have his way with it. Or maybe he was tying himself up, and trying to figure out how to make "come hither" noises in Squirrelese. Who knows? Regardless, my vote was that we track him down and beat him to death.
Ok, so I didn't actually *share* my thoughts on the matter. :-) It's not my own particular...idiom. ;-) I instead attempted a rescue by calling lunch early and running off to Home Despot.
Yeah, I meant to do that. Butsoanyway...
Not only did I have to find, measure, and cut my own rope myself (after waiting politely for probably about ten minutes right by the rope and cutting table, looking expectantly), but while waiting and before I started cutting, I was ignored by a few employees, who instead went off to help men! So I got my rope, and went off in search of clippy things. I had no idea where they are, and had to chase employees--literally!--all over the store. One I called to as I was at the foot of one aisle, and he up in the top fourth; he heard me, looked my way, and then decided to go help a man at the top of the aisle.
Ok. That pissed me off. I'm on a schedule here, remember? Eviljob is tight with their schedules, and I still have to get something to eat, for crying out loud. I'm only getting one lunch break per day!
And I'm not trying to sound...jerky, or anything, but I would think that an at-least-reasonably attractive girl, dressed somewhat professionally (Eviljob has its standards, even for trainings-in-the-park, you know) would be able to snare at least a little male attention. I mean, I know I'm not a beast, and I know I don't look like a bum--get my drift? Cute girl has money. Cute girl want spend money. It's that simple, and somehow places like Nordstrom get it (I get ambushed by the male clerks there, more than any other place, and they're not all gay, believe it or not) places like...oh, why go on? You get what I am saying. Plus, I'm wandering the damn store in heels (ok, they were low heels, suitable for the park, but you get my point) actively *looking* for help. And I can't rustle up a single associate to save my soul.
Now, Ancodia here is by no means a helpless female. She has put in time working tech in the theatre, and did more than her share of hauling furniture (by herself!) up and down from the prop room, putting together sets, and so forth. Never once has Our Brave Girl flinched at the sound of a nail gun. A really big one. That was loud. And unwieldy. Never once did our Mistress Of The Booth hesitate to unload lumber with the best of 'em, to screw butt hinges until 4 a.m., when her wrists were numb, to...
Ok...I just like saying "screw butt hinges". :-) Always have.
My point is, I've been there, done that. I could do it again if I had to. Someday I might even *want* to again, but I don't right at this moment. If I ever manage to get myself married off, it's ok with me if he wants to play Handyman; Ancodia can hold stuff for him, or think up new and creative ways to distract him while he's fixing the garbage disposal. :-)
God, I have a dirty mind. Sigh.
My point is that I'm neither totally incompetent, nor do I look incompetent. My personal take on the matter is that, hardware-wise, I look like an easy sell.
So I'm getting ignored, and I'm pissed. I stalk towards the front of the store and encounter "George", who obviously failed Hide-and-Seek in primary school.
"Don't you dare move," I tell him. Yes, Ancodia will get bitchy, if you piss her off enough.
"Ok, I gotta..."
"No, you don't. Take me to the clippy things. Now."
George and I haggled for a moment over what "clippy things" were, and he found them for me. I looped my rope around one and realised that I'd cut my rope too short. I demanded that George accompany me back to the rope.
As he's measuring and cutting, George decides to turn into a wise acre; "So who're you gonna tie up with the rope?", he leers.
Don't kid yourself; Ancodia has lost all hope of lunch, and is by no means in the mood to put up with this right now.
"You, if you don't move it." I *told* you I can be a Bitch if provoked!
"Awww," George protests, "I'm just teasin' ya."
I explain to George that I would have taken it better if what was supposed to have been a twenty minute trip hadn't stretched to fill an entire hour, and that after the way I've been treated, I'm half-tempted to visit my doctor to make sure I don't have cooties, or leprosy, or something.
George thinks this is funny. No apology. Just funny. He nods, even. Now he's all helpful, even encouraging, making sure I don't need anything else. WTF?
If this was designed to make me feel like the biggest raving bitch on the face of the Earth, it's working. My guilt switch has a hair-trigger. I apologise to George, who is still getting some major amusement out of something, and take off. As I'm leaving, I decide I'm never going back to Home Depot, a decision I change my mind on within a few months. And I get ignored again. And I go back again. And get ignored again. And again. And again.
Ancodia begins to notice a trend.
I mention this casually one day to my son-friend, who was a manager for ten years (he's way older than me, did I mention that?) at an Ace Hardware franchise. Son-friend fills me in; I look like Walking Trouble, he says.
And how does he figure that? Wanna know? I sure did.
I look like "walking trouble" in a hardware store, he explains, because I just look like the kind of girl who has just moved into a new home, and decided home remodelling isn't all that hard and want it all done my way anyway. If I walked into Home Depot and he was working there, he elaborates, he'd figure I'd just finished doing something utterly moronic like measuring out my kitchen with a sewing ruler, then done something irreparable like bashing off my kitchen countertop and shelving because I hated it and thought it was ugly, and was presenting myself at Home Depot, thinking I was going to just swing by, pick up some marble and shelves , cram them all into my compact car, and go home and put the new stuff up by evening so I can start cooking in my new kitchen.
Oh, spare me.
What's worse, he continues, is that I look like I'm not going to listen to whomever tells me it can't be done that way. I will insist. Once I get home and find that it won't work, I will come back. Girls Like Me, he says, are the Repeat Customers From Hell; they won't listen to a thing you say until about the fifth repeat trip. By then, their kitchen (or whatever) looks like Beirut. It's unuseable. They're pissed. And they've already spent more than it would have cost them to just hire someone to do it.
And to top it all off, he finishes, about then they usually offer you money to come over and do it for them. By the time they get to that point, they're usually about to start crying, if they aren't already. He insists that this has happened to him more times than he can remember.
"I do not ever look like that," I protest, "and what's so wrong with measuring with a paper sewing ruler?"
"My point exactly," he says.
Sometimes my son-friend really pisses me off.
I didn't think anything was wrong with measuring with a sewing ruler because I'd never done it, not because I'm stupid. Once he explained that they are notoriously inaccurate, I got it. Now, in truth, I might not have noticed that they were inaccurate, but I'm not sure I own one anyway, so the world is safe. I own a real ruler. So whatever.
So I won't go to Home Depot, I'm temporarily ticked at Office Whatever, and I'd rather shop for the laptop desk thingy I need online anyway. And I kicked my son-friend under the table several times while he was being needlessly unkind. And wrong.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Technically hours later, I started venting after I felt wholly blown off, but anyway...
It went well. And I received generic thanks. Generic thanks in the sense that it didn't actually say, "thank you for helping", but it did say something along the lines of, "if you were rubbing your lucky Bufus Buddah Frog, it worked! Thanks for praying to St. Ricketywicket for us!"
I guess that's enough. :-) I do feel better. Now I have to go finish typing this *other* paper...
I don't *need* pats on the head, I tell myself. 'Cos I don't.
It just rips my widget all the same. I *do* sometimes like to hear that I did a good job, and this time, I really think I did.
I know I'm whining, but it's not like I'm ever going to say anything to anyone about it in reality. I wish I understood why, of all people, I never get the proverbial pat on the head. I mean, even when I tell my mom I love her, I get a "ummm-hmmm," if I get any reaction at all. Which is nothing compared to the dejection and sadness I always felt when I would tell one guy that I loved him and get damn near the same reaction. Or, better, when he would respond with "I know you do". Why? Because he said that telling people that he loves them makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it makes my mom uncomfortable, too. I just always grew up with it, so it was never different...you know? But you'd expect better behaviour from a boyfriend. And from a manager. And from...geez...everyone in your life.
I put a lot of work into that paper. And I know I sound resentful. I'll be over it tomorrow. But sometimes you have to give *some* praise, otherwise people aren't motivated. I know this for a fact because they say so in those jackass corporate management seminars I have to attend every so often at Eviljob. The only place, it seems, that I do get any praise. Not only do I get praise there, I get money and other stuff for excelling at different goals. That's probably one of the reasons I stay there; because they praise me, and I'm pathetic enough to need it. Even though I don't like it when a great big deal is made. That's embarrassing. But I have saved commendations, all of my awards, and even 'thank you' emails. That's how stupid and pathetic I am. And why Eviljob has definite perqs over Stupidjob. This list thingy with explanations I wrote up was for Stupidjob, my sort-of second job.
I need praise. It even says so in that dumbass book, If You Touch My Cheese Again, I'm Gonna Kick Your Ass Into Next Week. Or maybe it was in Goddamn! This Place Smells Like Fish! or maybe it was in Annoying Habits of Underachievers Who Read Books Like This One. Whichever. :-) They're all might-as-well-be-required reading at Eviljob, and they all meld into one after a while. The short of it is, praise people. Christ...even moms teach people to say, "thank you"!
Yes, I'm angry. I feel resentful...even betrayed a little. I really went above and beyond. No one else in our group even *thought* about volunteering; when the subject came up, they all did the "la, la, la...gee, my nails are dirty and needing a good picking at! Golly, I wonder how my feet are doing under the table all alone..." thing.
This makes me angry. :-\ And consternated. It probably is too a word. I mean, *I* think I did a good job. I think I did a really freaking good job. If I didn't, somebody needs to tell me, so I can re-do it, or do it differently next time! When I sent my stuff, I even *asked* for feedback, so that I could re-do it and get it to my Stupidjob manager. Did I get anything? No! When we meet on Friday, or tomorrow when I see Ms Manager, she'll probably say something, but hey...too late. If I'm not important enough to tell beforehand, or even after the Big Horrid Meeting She's Dreading Because She Needs What I Have, then forget it. Grr.
This is *not* the way I would run things. When I am in charge of people, I praise them. Or give *some* kind of feedback.
I know, deep in my heart, that I am venting because I am stupid and pathetic. I know, deep in my heart, that No Word means that either it was ok, or it really sucked. I can't fix either of those now; Horridmeeting is over. There's no use in beating myself up over it. But it just makes me feel very alone, and...like...no one cares. That's all.
Dumb as dogshit. Yeah, that's me.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
I'm killing myself for a "justify your existence" meeting in the morning that thankfully I don't have to attend. It's my job to write up "talking points", as it were, regarding our functional group and a particularly icky, dull, and boring facet of our funding. I'm the only one that's interested, the only one that will do it.
And the only goddamn moron that volunteered.
It's boring as hell.
I have four good ideas so far. I can maybe pull our four-ish more. I'd done this once before, because I knew in my heart that when the time came I would get stuck with this, but I can't find what I did with that write up. I'm having difficulty remembering what I'd come up with, but I remember that there were like, fifteen-ish things, and they were all of moderate-to-high quality. I was going to save myself this grief.
I could just kick myself.
I can't even remember whether it was written up electronically, or in hardcopy. I mean, I did this almost a year ago.
Dumb, stupid, idiot bitch. Yeah, that's me.
Sometimes I just hate myself.
I am so very unhappy. I just wanted to tell someone.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Before school started up, I went to the in-the-flesh Binion's Poker Thingy in Tunica. Ok, so that's not the real name, and if I weren't typing like a madwoman, I'd take a sec and look it up; I think it's like, an Open, or something. I mainly went there as a spectator/companion, though I did play a couple of satellites! It was cool! I had fun, and the place had enough rather interesting guys to look at, enough to keep me occupied, at least.
I've probably not mentioned that I'm a pathetic sucker for a poker face, eh? Makes me dearly miss and fondly remember a former bf--that was his major appeal, I realized after scrutinizing. The only thing is, he didn't play poker; he played baseball. So I guess that makes it a "game face", but whatever. Enough--at least this second, there's more to come--about the speedbumps in my sex life, or expression thereof. :-)
After school started, things fairly blew up. Sigh. That one coworker I'd mentioned before as being a true blue yadda yadda did the "revealing his true self" thing. Sigh. They all do. In retrospect, I should have known. In a nutshell, he was being a little instigator. When it got found out...drum roll...he quit. To be expected, but I was surprised anyway. He just made up some pathetic bullcrap excuse, and quit, all in one day. At least I didn't make the mistake of actually delivering any of his numerous complaints to my manager, like he wanted me to do. Nopers, Ancodia isn't *that* dumb...at least that time. :-)
I will catch up later on everything else. I've missed posting. A lot. This gives me someplace to vent anonymously, and I've realized that I really, really need that. Whether anyone reads this or not, that fact that I'm (1) taking time for myself, (2) explaining and expressing Me, and (3) to a certain extent getting out some of the emotions I have--both good and bad--so that they don't well up inside like they always do--all are good reasons. I'm glad I'm back. :-)
That having all been said, it occurred to me today in class (an especially long and--forgive me, Professor; you really are one of my favourites--boring one) while I was fighting off the microsleeps (is too a word...well, it is without the pluralization, at least) that guys, when they are sleepy, are awfully cute.
I have a bad habit. When I'm sitting somewhere, particularly in class, and feel myself nodding off, I look around to see if I am the only one. Not that it ultimately makes a difference if I am, but...I don't know. Sleepiness loves company? Anyway, so I was falling asleep today, and I did my usual looking. And wouldn't you know; the guy that is sort-of across from me is doing the heavy-eyelid thing, closing them...staying closed...he's asleep! No! Back open! And then...going down...slowly...slowly...
"Damn, he's cute," I thought. Not just a little cute, either. He's the "I'd love to trace the outline of your lips with my tongue and work my way down" kind of cute. He's totally gorgeous, in an awe-inspiring kind of way that I can almost feel brushing across my lips, in a way that...
Wait a damn minute, I think to myself.
I don't like this guy.
That's not to say that I *dislike* him. I don't. I just don't *like* him. Not *that* way. He's ok; that's all. I've known him (through classes) for well over a year, talked to him a bunch, and until now...nothing. Really; not even a casual "wonder what you look like undressed" fleeting kind of half-thought. He's Just A Guy, as far as I've been concerned. Up 'til now, I've not suffered from any kind of urge to lick, suck, and kiss all over his person whatsoever. What in the hell is going on?
He looks cute when he's sleepy.
Now how dumb is that? As an experiment--one that also had the added benefit of keeping me awake--I looked around again. Through the marvels of imagination, I realized that a vast majority of the guys in my class, Professor included, would look cuter if they were falling asleep. A few of them not-so-much. A few of them dangerously so. See? Everything really *does* fall on a bell-shaped curve! Kidding, kidding. Ok--dumb joke.
Now what in the hell am I supposed to make out of this particular little paraphilia of mine? Ok, ok...it hasn't been six months yet, but still. What does this say about me? Moreover, what could be done about it? Get a boyfriend and a bottle of cough syrup?!? I mean, geez...
"Sweetheart, if you love me, you'll take the Rohypnol..." Oh, yeah; I can see it now.
So here I am now, after class, preoccupied with what in the hell is wrong with me, instead of doing my work.
Sigh. And here I am now, not ten seconds after writing that last line, feeling guilty over wasting time, getting to work.