Getting swallowed whole.

It took me many, many hours just to complete my psychology homework this morning. There's so much memorization and so much I've forgotten since my class in high school . . . although I guess it's been about twelve years.
I got up promptly at 8:30 this morning, checked my email, and let my eyes adjust to being awake. Then I read the first chapter in the textbook and started the homework. I guess they have the online portal for the school linked up with the IDs – which is pretty cool – so all you have to do is swipe your card when you get to class and ask long as it's completed, your grades are calculated and in the gradebook. I finished two different assignments, though I only needed to do one, and started a third, but I got sick of it. Then I went back later tonight and finished the workbook at the end of the chapter. I'm so tired of thinking about Gestalt theory and psychoanalysis, and I've already made a thousand mental jokes to prepare me for going over Freuds oral, anal, phallic, latency, and genital stages of childhood that I could just pass out.
And I haven't even started art history or english. Charlie was nice enough to make copies of the e.e. cummings poem I'm reading in my literature class on Monday, so that's nice not to have to worry about.

I got a co-worker to cover for me at the part time job for most of my shift tonight so I came home early, made a trip to the store for some more school supplies, and had dinner with Kate. Now I'm getting ready to hit the hay with the art history book but I imagine I'll pass out in about fifteen minutes. That would be a new record for me: it usually takes me an hour or more to actually fall asleep after I go to bed. This is why I have an addiction to sleeping pills; I used to live off the suckers when I had to get up early every morning. It sucks.

Did you ever look up at the sky and watch the clouds pass and then get freaked out that you're actually sitting a sphere that's spinning wildly? I just did. I was watching these really thick clouds move past the moon and was thinking how fast they were going. Then I had a reality check and it totally freaked me out. Bad enough, but not as bad as the night I sat on the beach in Florida a couple years ago and was awed by the size of the ocean. At first it was really amazing, but then I realized the only lights I could see were pretty far behind me, from the condo where we were staying, and the blackness in front of me reached out infinitely. I suddenly felt really small and worthless and got so spooked I had to run back inside and watch Mtv just so I could get a sense of the worthlessness of the rest of the world for a minute.



They must assume all the kids going to school there have no social life, no job, no family, no kids, no rent . . . Why else would I get stuck in a class geared toward a bunch of eighteen year-olds? Why else would I have to wear a nametag in college and list off things about the person who has the matching nametag?
Who the hell cares?
I know I’m being a grump, but my primary goal is not to be everyone’s bestest friend. It is to go to class, learn something, take tests, and go home.

Plus, I already got a parking ticket.

How lazy are you?

I'm so lazy that, although I'm out of cigarettes I don't want to leave the house for any reason. I know I'll have to get gas on my way to class but it's only 8:30. I am, however, proud of myself for being up at a reasonable hour. It's probably mostly the paranoia of not waking up on time. With Charlie back at work and Kate now at a full time job I was afraid if no one was here to yell at me I might not wake up on time.
My eyes popped open at a little bit after eight. Must have been when Charlie left.
Even though I never really feel fully rested, I could sleep and sleep and sleep. It's one of my all-time favorite things to do. Carryover from high school when I was addicted to uppers and downers. I'd take speed or whatever I could get my hands on to stay awake all day and night, then something to get me to sleep, then I'd wake up groggy and start all over again. And – this is sad – even though drugs could have easily made me forget whatever problems I had, sleep did it just as well. When I was asleep, no one bothered me or made fun of me or knocked my books out of my hands.
Not that I think this is going to happen today. I'm thrilled to be an anonymous student.
So I have at least an hour and a half before I could leave and not be considered painfully early. Or could I? It's not going to take me an hour to get down there and find a parking space, is it?
I'm guessing I may as well clean up, go put gas in the car, get some cigarettes and come back. But I don't know what to do for almost two hours before I have to be at class. Study my map?
Oh, yes. I'm also paranoid that I won't be able to find a parking space and that I'll forget where the buildings are. Also that I won't find any of my class rooms. Sigh. I'm such a baby.

I went into Saks once. To use the bathroom.

Have I mentioned how much I'd let to get my Moveable Type groove on? More time for that later.
We went down to campus today but, as usual, I didn't drive for some reason. And we went a roundabout way so I didn't get a feel for which directions I'd be going. We went by the current Herron building, then the new one, then parked in the main campus lot and found my English class there.
I was also going to be turning in my appeal for financial aid (the one that says “I may have had some cash before but now I'm really poor”) but the line for that office was literally around a corner and so far back I couldn't see where it ended. They were actually playing movies on a screen. But we found out that I could just drop my info in a box and be done with it.
The library was showing soap operas so thank god it took me just a few moments to find and pay for the last two textbooks I needed.
I rather enjoy the idea of being a nameless student; another face in the crowd. But I also don't like crowds at all. The bigger it is, and the less likely the chance is that I have of making a quick escape, the more freaked out I get. I was ready to go five minutes after arriving on campus.
Tomorrow I'm buying a copy of my literature textbook off Jess and, hopefully, picking up this darling green trendy handbag I've had my eye on for a while. It'll go marvelously with my orange $13.99 messenger bag from Target. I don't really “need” another purse. Nor do I really need to spend any extra cash since we'll be running on fumes for a while. But, really, I'm not going to be running around with a beige bag in the fall, I'm sorry.
Okay, I'm not that big a snob. And being a student means lugging everything around in a backpack. But I really do want this purse. However, I will settle for the following:

D&G, and a steal at only 54 times the price of the green one I want. This would clash with my messenger bag anyway.

If only I could get one with a matching pair of Manolos. Or any pair, really.

What? You question the level of comfort these would provide while traipsing through snow and ice on campus?
Am I being facetious? Unfortunately, not too much.
There's the part of me that revolts against conformity and dumping obscene amounts of money on single items other than cars and homes (see earlier entry regarding 15 year-olds w/ Louis Vuitton), and then there's the part that covets and lusts after expensive things that, on me, would shock the snottier of my former co-workers at the publishing company.
Are Manolo Blahniks even popular anymore? If not, can I get them for cheap? And, if I can get them, would they go with my $16.99 skirt from Old Navy?

How's about WE abandon hate?

“Working Together Works for Iraqi Soccer Team”?
“Soccer Helps Mend a Nation”?
“Surprising Iraq Olympic team unites, inspires”?
“Team abandons hate to fight for improbable medal”?

What is this drivel about the Iraqi soccer team winning in the Olympics?
Are we supposed to feel better about killing their children and bombing their country just because they’ve played well at a sport? Is it just me that finds it a bit patronizing?

Miss Emo

Today is my last day at my full time job, working in a field I dreamt about when I was younger. I used to think publishing was so exciting and romantic. While I've enjoyed my time here and the experiences I've gained, it really, honestly feels like Time to Move On.
I also left a note in the communication log at my part time job last night to tell them that I was giving either two weeks' notice or an I'm-going-to-blow-up-and-walk-out notice. The manager there scheduled me to work 9 nights in a row, closing every single night. It's a Thursday through the following Friday and I'd be getting 60 hours total. Except I'm only part time, so I'm not sure why it worked out that way.
I left a note for my manager the other day saying this schedule would not work for me. Especially since she has me coming in on Wednesday at 5pm. But I have class until 5:45. Obviously she didn't listen when I gave her my school schedule.
I've been furious about it for a few days now but this morning I'm just kind of blah. I don't care and I don't know if I care to stay there and finish out those last two weeks. If a couple of people would take over just a couple of nights I might just suck it up and do it. But the last thing I wanted was to work so many hours during my first two weeks as a brand spankin' new college freshman.
Of course, the manager leaves for her 11 day vacation tomorrow. This is on top of the vacation she took last month, just three weeks ago. Must be nice.
I've experienced so many different and extreme emotions lately that I seem to have just flatlined. I'd like to crawl back under the covers and lay in bed for about three days, waking up occasionally to watch a movie or read a good book.

Geographical Tongue & Piercings

I managed to eat way too much pineapple today, which somehow managed to burn the back of my tongue to the point that it's swollen and sore. I'm guessing the acidity of the fruit.

Thinking about Mr No-Tact from my previous entry made me think of several sad conversations I've overheard when I've been outside smoking at the part time job. We're close to a large high school in a relatively affluent part of town so we get a lot of snotty teenagers driving cars twice as expensive as my own (that probably belong to them — they're not just driving mommy and daddy's Lexus. Lexes. Lexii?). They have credit cards and order expensive drinks, some of them actually tip, and a number carry things like Burberry, Kate Spade, Coach and Prada bags. One girl had one of those Louis Vuitton Murikami purses with a matching wallet. What the hell are these kids' parents thinking when they plop down two grand on a purse?

Isn't it absolutely hideous?

So I'm outside having a puff when I overhear the following conversation held between about four or five sixteen year-olds:
“She's so disgusting!”
“I know! I totally don't talk to her any more. She's, like, really nasty.”
“Me, neither. But [so-and-so]'s still friends with her.”
“No I'm not!”
“She is still friends with her, even though we told her not to be.”
“Well I heard after she had it done she was showing people in the parking lot.
“Ugh! I heard she went to, like, the ghetto to have it done!”
“Yeah – and you know how we, like, can't go past 38th Street? She went all the way down to, like, the 10th Street ghetto.
“Ewww! That is so nasty! And you know what I heard? When you have it done you, like, have orgasms or whatever when you walk.”
“Gross! Why would anyone do that?!”
[insert sound of walking and grunts]

It became clear what the girls were ostracizing this other female about and it made me sad. Part of me wanted to slap them individually for openly criticizing the one person who was nice to this girl, part of me wanted to slap them and ask if they actually believed some chick at their high school could go to a piercing parlor and get her hood done when she was probably only fifteen or so, and part of me wanted to get up, walk to the door, and mention over my shoulder, “It's not that bad once you get used to it.”
And, no, I don't really have that done.

This exchange reminded me of a book I read called Slut! Growing Up Female with a Bad Reputation by Leora Tanenbaum.
Here's the book's description on Amazon: Girls may be called “sluts” for any number of reasons, including being outsiders, early developers, victims of rape, targets of others' revenge. Often the labels has nothing to do with sex — the girls simply do not fit in. An important account of the lives of these young women, Slut! weaves together powerful oral histories of girls and women who finally overcame their sexual labels with a cogent analysis of the underlying problem of sexual stereotyping.
Author Leora Tanenbaum herself was labeled a slut in high school. The confessional article she wrote for Seventeen about the experience caused a sensation and led her to write this book.

I was a slut in high school. Before I ever even kissed a boy. I was also a vampire, a satan worshipper, a lesbian, a freak, a weirdo, and bi. But only the last three were true.

There once was a man with no tact . . .

There are several creepy customers who come in to the coffeeshop where I work part time. One of them is a man with no tact, two are moderately mentally ill (not that this fact alone bothers me- I worked in social services for almost 9 years. It's their specific paranoia and schizophrenia that give me the heebie jeebies — the stuff they say) , one is a transexual (who is always asking people if she passes for a woman. Not too terrible, but it creeps other people out), and another two are some guys on meth or something.
Mr No-Tact suddenly started coming in every night about 10 minutes before we closed. He never had the correct change for a small cup of coffee and always took the remainder out of our tips. I find this horribly offensive since people have no idea how much we make and, for all they know, we make two bucks an hour and have to live off those tips. It's annoying how many people make or take change out of our tips.
Anyway, Mr No-Tact came in for the fourth night in a row. This time I was closing with a girl named Jenny who, thankfully, isn't a total freak or she might have flipped out. Mr No-Tact walked up to the counter and she asked what she could get for him.
“How 'bought some sex?” He asked.
Jenny and I just started at him,
“Ha, ha, ha! I got you that time. You thought you knew what I said and then you didn't but you figured it out, huh? Pretty slow tonight, aren't we?”
I'm sure I made some really pleasant faces at him. It was just horrifying. I'm no prude, but this guy comes off like a creep. For one thing, you don't make jokes like that in mixed company, at night, late, in an empty store where the only employees are two young women. For another thing, you don't assume you can make those kinds of jokes when you haven't established yourself as any kind of customer, let alone a good one.
Now Mr No-Tact has been coming in every night with a cup from our store that has his own tea bags. He'll ask for hot water then go outside for a bit, drink it, then come back in and ask for “just a refill.” Which means he wants a free bag. Screw him. Every time he walks in now, I just completely avoid him. I have decided, however, that if he says anything that's the slightest bit offensive, I'm going to tell him to get the f*ck out of my store or I'm calling the cops.

I've done that before, with the trashy night security guard who went on and on about throwing a dog out of a second story window after I'd begged him three times to stop talking about it. I can't remember if I told that story in here or not. But I called him all sorts of names, then went to my manager [with whom I am not happy right now] and tattled on myself so she'd know what sorts of unsavory things I'd said but also that I don't feel comfortable with our security.
If memory servers me, I called him a piece of white trash, a jackass, and told him to get the F out before I physically removed him myself.
It's a wonder they let people like that have guns. And breed.

Skinny Dip

With some birthday money my parents sent me I bought the latest Carl Hiaasen novel. I love him. I wrote a review of his kids novel, Hoot, in one of the older editions of FAR. Too bad we never figured out how to archive editions because no one can find old stories unless they're Googled or from the first site I put up.
I am the queen of links today. But my Mac is acting all wonky. I'm going to need to restart.

Pork Butts on a Stick

If I hadn't been up till almost 5am Saturday, I may have been able to get up and go to the fair. I miss it for some reason. I dunno if it's the food or the people-watching, or what. I just feel really left out of the whole thing. My next opportunity to go would be Wednesday or Thursday directly after work, or Sunday. That's the last day of the fair. That would be scary.