See, this is why I don't date. Yeah, I'm one of those, the ones that like to be friends first. Why? Because dating is too dishonest. It's a sales pitch, and I've never been much for sales pitches. I like to get to know a guy before I decide if I want to vest that much in him romantically. You can't get to know somebody through dating, not really. On a date, you only see what your partner wants you to see; but friendships are honest -- at least, the good ones are -- and if you decide you don't want to move beyond friendship with this person, hey, at least you've made a friend.

This can backfire, of course. For instance, if one friend decides that the other friend is exactly what he or she wants out of life, but the other friend wants to just stay friends, and honestly, isn't even sure if he/she wants that much of a relationship, but doesn't want to hurt the first friend's feelings because he/she seems like a nice person, and after all they did have some good times together, it can quickly decline from a friendship to a stalker/stalkee kind of thing. Either that, or there you're stuck being best friends, and nothing more, with the love of your life, having to go through all of the motions of being a good friend, listening to them piss and moan about their shitty girlfriends or whatever, when all you really want to do is slap them upside the head and make them realize how PERFECT you are for them ...

Not that I know from experience or anything.

I'm going to be productive and focused on my work today.

Quit laughing.

Extreme distractability, combined with not-so-good prioritization skills, often leads to not getting much done, despite your best intentions.

That kind of falls into the "no shit" category, doesn't it? Anyway, it's frustrating, I tell ya.

That sort of thing is why I try never to talk to my co-workers.

When I was twelve, I got stuck in the public swimming pool. My, but that paints a comical picture, doesn't it? It wasn't quite that bad, actually. What really happened is that as I was climbing out of the side of the pool (for some reason I opted not to use the ladder), my knee slipped inside this ceramic lip that went all the way around the inside of the pool, and no matter what I tried, it wouldn't slip back out again.

My friend went and got the lifeguard, and all of the other lifeguards came over, and none of them could get my leg out. It was a big fracas, and a rather sizeable crowed gathered around to watch. The fire department was called, and eventually they got my leg out of there, with minimal damage to both my knee and the pool. My mom had arrived by then, and she led me to the car, limping, weeping, and humiliated, and took me home.

As I waited to be rescued, I kept a vigilant eye out for anyone who might be there from my school. In my twelve-year-old mind, the absolute worst thing that could happen would be for this to get back to the kids at school. Forget that if the lifeguard hadn't come when he did I might have lost my grip on the side of the pool, slipped back into the pool, broken my leg and/or drowned. Forget the possibility that they would have to cut out a chunk of the pool to release my leg and then bill my parents for the repairs. Nevermind that they may simply opt to break my leg to get it out of there. That didn't matter, as long as no one from my school knew what happened.

Besides my friend and her little brother, both of whom were only in town for the summer, I saw nobody I knew. The most embarassing experience of my life, and I was going to get by without anyone knowing about it. I swore my friend to secrecy, went home, and put the whole thing behind me.

The next day, my ordeal made the front page of the local paper.

The editor, who was also our neighbor, had called my mom to get permission to print my name, me being a minor and all. Without consulting me, she'd consented. She thought I'd be pleased. It's not every day you get to have your name printed on the front page of the paper.

That afternoon, the phone calls started. By the time school started, every body knew. And nobody ever forgot. My senior year in high school, people still brought it up. To this day, my friends like to remind me about it whenever they need a good laugh.

Thanks, Mom.

mekka lekka hi mekka hiney
ho!

So. I'm through with training. The big thing I learned is that my personal goals and objectives don't line up with my job; neither do my priorities and values; nor, it seems, do my talents and motivations. In short, no matter how good I am at this job, it will never bring me job satisfaction. Can I get a big "Duh!" from the audience?

So, my job sucks. I didn't really need a corporate workshop to point that out for me. But, it pays my bills and it will pay for my psych degree, and it doesn't suck any worse than any other job I'm likely to find, so I'm likely to stick with it for a while longer.

At least I don't still work at Wal-Mart.

I saw Boiler Room, and while I agree it could have been better, I'll watch it again, for one reason, and one reason only. And it sure as shootin' wasn't Giovanni Ribisi or Ben Affleck.

Hint: It's the same reason I saw Pitch Black three times.

I, dear readers, have been in training all day. As for tomorrow, I will be in training all day. What kind of training, you ask? Well, maybe you don't ask, but I'll tell you anyway. Situational Self-Leadership. Doesn't that sound like fun? I didn't think so either. Doesn't that sound like a corporate assimilation technique? Damn skippy. I am getting some useful information from it, though, such as the basics of juggling, and a nifty card trick. Our instructor, it seems, is a bit of a showman at heart.

Over the weekend I watched "The Day After" the other night on the SciFi Channel. I was about ten years old the first time that movie was broadcast. I remember it well. It was an event. We were encouraged to watch it. Older students at my school were even made to write papers about it. My family sat glued to the television and watched the horror of a hypothetical nuclear war graphically played out, then we sat around reassuring ourselves that something like that would never be allowed to happen. I still had nightmares.

Almost twenty years later, with the cold war nothing but a bad memory, I decided to watch it again, thinking it would be a nice little piece of 80's nostalgia (imagine getting nostalgic about the threat of nuclear war). I thought it would be fun to laugh at the bad hair, the silly clothes, the bad acting, and how stupid everything about the Reagan-era was. From the opening credits, I knew I'd thought wrong.

For a TV movie, it had a rather impressive cast. It was directed by Nicholas Meyer, who, among other things, wrote and/or directed all of the best Star Trek movies. This was no movie-of-the-week, my friends. This was more like a movie-of-the-decade. Again, I was riveted. And again, I was horrified by what I saw. And again, I was freaked out by the message at the end that stated that the movie had actually portrayed an unrealistically optimistic view of what might happen in the event of a nuclear war.

I sat there after it was over and reassured myself that the cold war is over, that the threat has been abated, and that they would never really allow anything like that to happen. I went to bed, and had nightmares.

The next day, I heard some political pundit talking about low voter turnout and trying to blame it on my generation, going on and on about how apathetic and self-centered we are. Us damn lazy slacker Gen X-ers with our dotcom franchizes and our disregard for the way our parents did things. And it occurred to me: we were brought up to be nihilists, to believe that the world could end any minute with the push of a single button, that we didn't have any future to speak of.

So is it any wonder that we came to be people who live in the now, who don't put a whole lot of stock in planning ahead? Many of us had already reached adulthood by the time the USSR disbanded and the world's sense of impending doom abated. Even then, our entire lives had been lived under the threat of WWIII, so it took us a while to believe that it was really over. Once the reality sunk in, in between the fall of the Berlin wall and the mainstreaming of the Internet, suddenly we had an entire generation of young adults with no direction for the future. Thank God for the Internet, is all I can say. It gave us a future, something we could grab onto and make our own.

I think, all things considered, we've done a pretty good job at finding our own direction, since there wasn't really anyone to provide it for us as with previous generations. Worrying about and planning for the future is still a fairly new concept for us. As we become more accustomed to it, and as our optimism increases, perhaps our apathy will continue to fade.

This isn't a "Boo hoo, the baby boomers with their drugs and their bombs and their free love screwed everything up for us so why should we even be expected to bother" speech. Well, maybe it is, to an extent; but I don't think we shouldn't be expected to bother. What bothers me is that we are constantly expected NOT to bother, even though we often DO bother when we feel it necessary. We're not as dramatic about it, we don't stage big protests, because frankly, nothing we have to protest is that big. We've got it pretty good, and as we grow older and wiser, we're beginning to realize it, and to appreciate it, and to understand that we'd better get off our asses and get involved if we want to keep it that way.

So if I hear one more aging hippy turned politician bitching and moaning about how my generation doesn't realize how good we've got it and how we're lazy, apathetic freeloaders, I'll ... well, I'll probably just bitch about it some more, actually. That's one thing Generation X is good at. We've raised the art of bitching and moaning to a lifestyle, and nobody can take that away from us. We may be a generation of inactivists, but by God, we care enough about the world around us to complain loudly about it. So stick that in your bong and smoke it.

I just talked to the vet. She called my home yesterday to check on him and talked to my mom instead of me. When I asked her about what my mom said about traction, she had no idea what I was talking about. I love my mommy, but she has this tendency to put things into her own words when she tries to relay information and as a result often completely muddles what was originally said. So Fizgig won't be put in traction. I'm supposed to keep him confined for another week, then if he's still all limpy and gimpy take him back in for a re-evaluation. Sounds like a good plan to me.

In the mean time, I need to take him somewhere fun in the car so he won't think that everytime he gets in the car it's to go to the vet.

I am seriously getting it together today. After months of deliberation, I finally caved and signed on to have all of my bills paid online. I also paid my current bills, and found I have plenty of money left over for my upcoming road trip to Disney World. PLUS I finally called my somewhat-lower-interest credit card people to ask them if I can transfer my balance from my super-high-interest credit card to them. It's pending approval, but at least I made it as far as asking, which for me is a huge step.

Of course, my wonderful landlady (a.k.a. my mom) has generously let me skip my rent payment this month so I'll have money for the trip, which is a big help. I'll try to pay double next month anyway, though. Also, the vet called yesterday and said something about putting Fizgig in traction if he doesn't improve, which, trip or no trip, will call for a rather sizeable loan from the Bank of Mom. I hope it doesn't have to happen, besides being expensive it will be extremely unpleasant for everyone involved, most especially for the dog. He does appear to be improving, though. He's walking on the leg when I take him out. He still picks it up when he runs, though; but as long as nobody messes with it, he sure doesn't act like he's in any pain.

Hey! Want to see a picture of my brain?

Plus, what if there is an article printed on the other side of one of those cigarette ad pages? That's the part that really bothers me.

All right, that's it. I can't resist anymore. I'm going to start reading X-Men again.

I had no idea that Stephen Sondheim's "Passion" was available on video.

I just posted a new entry to Internal Monologue

How disappointing. I was really pulling for Rudy. Until Sue -- bitter, angry, scary Sue -- made her speach, then I wanted so badly for Kelly to win; but I think, deep down, we all knew it would be Richard. It just goes to show you, evil will always triumph, because good is dumb.

Okay. So I dug around and found an old story about Rich's child abuse allegations, and it did not confirm that Rich won, just that he made it into the final group, so I'm guessing that the Dateline or 20/20 or whatever story I saw on him said the same thing and I misunderstood. Thank God. This means Rudy could still win.

So the finale has gained some extra-spicey suspense elements for me. This is how I think it will go down: Unless she wins immunity again, Kelli will get voted off. If she wins, it'll be Sue. Then whichever woman is remaining will lose the final contest (most likely to Rich), and the jury, who all probably hate the two-faced Rich and his naked white child beater* ass as much as I do, will vote for Rudy to win. Yay, Rudy!

I need to find a blank tape tonight so I can tape the Reunion while I watch Kevin Smith host Exposure's tribute to George Lucas. Actually, I would prefer to tape the latter while I watch the former, but nobody at my house ever figured out how to hook the VCR into the satellite feed.

*For the record, what Rich allegedly did to his kid doesn't sound any worse than anything my dad did to me growing up, and I wouldn't seriously classify my dad as a child beater. Although at least one of my siblings might disagree.

Why must I feel like shit for a week out of every month just because I'm a girl? It just isn't fair.

I'm obsessing. While I'm somewhat psyched about the live-action Batman Beyond movie mentioned below, I'd rather see them simply release Return of the Joker theatrically instead of direct-to-video. Warner Bros.' animated Batman features have consistently been better than their live-action ones. At least they finally have the good sense to bring the animation guys in on their live-action projects.

I'm hyperventalating too, Bry.

I just hope that the casting folks remember that Terry McGuinness is supposed to be a teenager and don't cast some 35 year old (*cough* Keanu *cough*) to play him. I also hope that the writers keep in mind that Bruce Wayne is still the driving force behind Batman, Terry is really just his frontman. But if Paul Dini is involved, then I have a modicum of faith that it will be done right.

My back still hurts, but the pain has subsided to a tolerable ache.

My dog thinks he's being punished when I take him off of my bed when I leave for work in the morning. He doesn't understand that he can't be left up there because he could fall or try to jump off and exacerbate his leg injury. He just thinks he's done something to warrant a loss of bed priveledges. Poor little guy.

My copy of Jaws 25th Anniversary Collector's Edition arrived from Amazon yesterday, so I watched it last night, and as I did I realized that it was the first time I'd ever sat down to watch that movie from beginning to end, with no commercials or editing-for-television to dilute the experience. I also realized that it truly is a kick-ass film. It had been so long since I'd last seen any of it that I'd forgotten the parts I had seen, so I may as well have been watching it for the first time. I was really surprised at how many times that movie made me jump and scream. We're talking about a twenty-five year old adventure movie scaring someone who grew up on eighties horror movies (including all of the Jaws sequels). I'm amazed that it still carries that much impact. Not to mention that it's just a great story, with great acting.

I also watched the behind the scenes stuff that came with it, and apparantly it was a bitch of a movie to make, and it stood to make or break Stephen Spielberg's career. Everybody involved expected it to be a disaster and were amazed when it turned out to be such a success. I just love stories like that.

Speaking of making or breaking careers, I finished re-drafting my first chapter, and I think I'm going to end up completely rewriting the first three or four chapters. And I'm thinking of eliminating the crocodile scene. If you've read my manuscript, you know what that means. And if you've read it, you can tell me whether or not you think that's a good idea.

Actually, Yana would have fit fine into a couple of other categories, but is listed where she is because even though she may not know it, she comes across as a strong person, and it's an unpretentious kind of strength. I like her attitude. Like Keith who has lived through some of the worst things a new parent can go through, and Jeffrey Zeldman who is just chock full of useful information, she is someone who can teach me things, even if she doesn't mean to. In short, Yana rocks.

I'm just not with it today. I seem to have done something to my back, because it hurts, Dear God how it hurts, and I've taken at least 2000 miligrams of ibuprofen so far today, which has done nothing for the pain but seems to be doing a really swell job of rendering my Ritalin completely ineffective, and I'm all spacey and fidgety and unfocused as a result, and I think I may also be PMS-ing because I feel fat and bloated and depressed and irritable, but apart from the fat and bloated part that could just be due to the pain, oh dear sweet Jesus in Heaven the pain, please make it go away.

At least I get to go home soon. Strike that, I have to go to Wal-Mart and get some more Benadryl for my dog. Dear Lord, what have I done to deserve the punishment from hell that is a trip to Wal-Mart on top of all of the rest of my suffering? Whatever it was, I'm sorry, and I promise not to do it again if you'll make my back stop hurting.

Maybe while I'm at Wal-Mart I can pick up some of those Doan's back pills or something.

Remember when Ralph Bakshi redid Mighty Mouse in the eighties? Man, that show was funny.

I saw "The Cell" the other night. It was pretty like a Bosch painting, or maybe a Goya, but it held none of the depth and meaning of either. In other words, nice visuals, but the story blew.

But before that, I took Fizgig to see the vet. I ended up having to leave him there for a couple of hours so they could sedate him and take x-rays. It turns out I was right about his shoulder being out of socket, but because of previous injuries (it had been broken in two different places previously, and neither had healed correctly. There's just no telling what all that dog went through before I found him), it wouldn't stay in place when he tried to put it back in. So he sent him home with some pain killers, and I'm supposed to keep him confined for about 10 days, then we'll go from there. If the shoulder won't stay in by itself, they'll have to insert a metal pin to hold it in place. Ick poo nasty. Traumatic for the dog, and expensive for me. So we're hoping and praying that it will go back in and stay of its own accord.

On the up side, the vet was extremely impressed with the progress he's made since I found him. His fur has grown back everywhere but on his left front leg, which was the most damaged, but it's almost healed too. He's gone from 6 to 7 pounds in the two months that I've had him, which is quite a difference in something so small. Except for the leg and allergies, he's completely healthy. Yay.

At the vet, I found myself having to explain his name a lot. I had to explain it to my family when I first named him, but I pretty much expected that. I guess it never occurred to me that I was naming him after such an obscure piece of early eighties pop-culture. So, for any of you who've wondered what the hell kind of name for a dog is Fizgig and where did I come up with it anyway, I'll tell you: Fizgig is a Muppet from "The Dark Crystal," one which my little dog resembled very closely when I first found him; he's the little hairball in this picture. So now you know. Happy?

I wasn't left alone to do my work. That's not good. I had to stay late to get everything done, and therefore had no time to finish my rewrites. That's not good. But I get to put down overtime, and that's good. It's Friday, and I'm out of here, and that, my friends, is SO good.

Have a good one.

Last season, I mostly identified with Spike. Stuck in a situation he hates, forced to cooperate with people he doesn't care much for and/or has nothing in common with, unable to get violent with them no matter how much he wants to, relying on an organization he despises for his livelihood (okay, so the Scooby gang is hardly comparable to an evil corporate entity, but it's probably all the same to him). Yep, I identify with Spike quite a bit.

Today is jeans day. That's good. Somebody brought in fresh bagels. That's good, too. And it's Friday. That's always good. I have a lot of work to do, and that's not so good, but if people will leave me alone and let me get it done, that will be good. I think I'll finish my chapter one rewrite today, or at least come close, which is very good. Amazon shipped my 25th anniversary edition of Jaws this morning, which is good. The weather cooled off about 10 degrees today. That's good.

It's all good.

I'll be self-employed someday. "Someday" being within the next 5 to 10 years. Even if this is not true, I have to believe it, because I don't believe I'll ever experience job satisfaction otherwise, no matter what I do. I don' t know what form it will take, whether it's as a freelance writer or novelist, or if I'll see my psychology degree all the way through to a doctorate and set up my own practice, or maybe become some kind of consultant, but it will happen. This is my promise to myself.

I made somebody's day. Go me.

That is not to be confused with a bad mutha-(shut yo mouth!).

I just made an appointment to take Fizgig to the vet Saturday morning. He took a tumble down the stairs the other day and knocked his shoulder out of alignment. He doesn't act like he's in pain, so I figured it could wait until Saturday, since I can't really take time off work to take him in for something less than a life-or-death emergency. The receptionist freaked when I told her what the problem was, and made me talk to the vet.

The vet made me feel like a bad mother for waiting so long, and put unbelievable pressure on me to bring him in right away. When I explained that by the time I got off work, drove the 45 minute commute home to get him, and then drove the 35 minute commute back to the vet's, it would be time for them to close. She suggested I leave him over night. He already has major abandonment issues, I am not leaving him over night.

She tried to convince me that this is an emergency, even though he doesn't so much as wince when I touch his leg. He just limps a little when he runs. My little sister pulled her arm out of socket once when she was a toddler, her pediatrician made it out to be no big deal. So I'm a little hard pressed to think it's a bigger deal for a dog than for a two-year-old human being.

So he's going to the vet Saturday. I'm a bad mother.

As much as I lament that I am much closer to turning 30 than I would like to be, what really hurts is the realization that my mother is just as close to turning 60. I don't want my mommy to get old.

I hate -- HATE, I tell you -- that making phone calls is part of my job.

An Introvert's Lexicon - This is so me.

There is always a big spike in my site traffic on Wednesday nights because a bunch of people go online to search for the Survivor winner. I wonder if they're disappointed when they read my entry regarding Rich's big child abuse debacle. Do these people really want to know the outcome? Don't they want to be surprised? Or maybe they plan on placing bets. At any rate, they must be pretty desperate for the answer if they stick with the search listings long enough to come across my site, it's not very high on the list.

I think the remaining Survivors are afraid of Rudy, what with his assertions that he "knows people" and that if anybody crosses him he'll make them pay. I know I would be. That old fart doesn't mess around, does he?

Internet Explorer is having technical difficulties at the moment, so I'm using Netscape to surf. No sir, I don't like it. Although, I have made the comforting discovery that mine is not the only weblog page that doesn't behave properly in Netscape. I am not alone. Oh no, far from it.

Fluggart sounds like a non-curse-word curse word. "Fluggart! My socks have fallen down again!" It's oddly satisfying to say.

I think that comparing the comments of ignorant people regarding a medically proven neurobiological disorder with an informed opinion about the subjective results of a psychological study is hardly fair; and I didn't argue that violence among children is not a problem that needs to be dealt with by society as a whole.

I'm not pointing my finger at working mothers. If I was going to point my finger at a particular group of parents, it would be absentee fathers, but I don't believe they carry all of the blame, either.

The fact is, at least in the U.S., there is a growing tendency among parents -- GOOD parents, even -- to rely on television sets and VCR's to be baby sitters. A recent ad for TiVo is a good illustration of this. The ad depicts a slew of toddlers and pre-schoolers throwing violent, desctructive temper tantrums. The ad's suggested solution? Record their favorite shows on TiVo so you can pop your kids in front of the TV when they act up. Don't discipline them, don't talk to them, don't take the time to teach them that their behavior is wrong and carries consequences, just let them watch TV so they'll be quiet. This sends a disturbing message, but it's really just a reflection of what happens all too often when you combine worn out parents with screaming, misbehaving children.

An increasing number of young children also have television sets and VCRs in their bedrooms, where they can watch without parental supervision. V-chips and parental lockout devices aren't going to prevent a kid from sneaking one of his parents' movies into his room to watch without their knowledge; and since these kids know that they'll get in trouble for watching this forbidden fare, they're not going to discuss the things they see with their parents.

More and more, children today don't have anyone around who can help them put movie violence into the proper context, the way my parents did. It's not just about time or laziness. Often it's because parents simply forbid it, and when kids see it anyway (as almost always happens), they fear retribution if their parents find out, so they are not free to ask about the things they don't understand. If children see this stuff without having it put into context for them, of course it's going to mess with their heads.

I agree with the article's assertion that something should be done about marketing violent, adult programming to kids; but I don't agree with previous assertions that the entertainment industry should eliminate violent programming. Violent entertainment serves a purpose in providing a safe way to let out natural human agression impulses. Our brains are wired with a propensity for violence, and that propensity needs an outlet. It's the same reason violent sports such as football and pro-wrestling are so popular. It's also the same reason people throughout history have enjoyed everything from gladiator fights to public executions. In our modern culture, the same purpose is served, and none of the "entertainers" actually get hurt.

Sure, it's easy for me, a non-parent, to say it's up to the parents to fix the problem; but ultimately, the responsibility does lie with the parents, as well as with anyone who serves as an authority figure or caregiver to a child. Since I am the aunt of three nephews, two of which I helped to raise and the third of which I often babysit, that does include me. It's up to us to help the children in our lives understand the basic difference between right and wrong, and that if you shoot someone they will not get up and go on, but they will die, and death is final.

It's up to us to teach them to have respect for life.

Damn skippy is right.

I'm not a violent person. In fact, I'm a very non-violent person. I don't even like to kill bugs. Sure, I have the occassional violent fantasy, such as wishing I could smack someone upside the head when they say something idiotic, but I don't act out those fantasies. I know better.

I'm also a person who has been regularly exposed to media violence since early childhood. Bugs Bunny cartoons were probably the worst offenders early on (using violence for humor is not a new concept; just look at the Three Stooges). I was four when I witnessed Obiwan Kenobi slice the arm off of a rude alien with his lightsaber. My parents allowed me to watch my first slasher flick, Halloween, at the tender age of 6. It scared the ever loving daylights out of me, but it gave me a taste for horror, and for movie violence. By the time I reached my teens I'd become a regular connoiseur of bloody, gorey, violent fare. Not just scary movies, but action flicks, TV shows, novels, games ... I liked violence in my entertainment. I still do.

Yet, according to a new study by four major U.S. health organizations, all of that exposure to media violence should have turned me into a sociopath. I wonder why it didn't?

Could it possibly be because my parents took the time to watch this stuff with me, and discuss it with me, making sure that I understood that what I was watching wasn't real, that it was merely actors and makeup and special effects, and that if that happened to a person in real life they would really get hurt and die? My parents took great pains to make sure I knew the difference between fantasy and real life, and that I understood the consequences of reenacting what I saw on screen. They made sure I understood that the bad guys were bad guys, and that even the heroes who resorted to violence were not to be emulated.

And they managed to raise a non-violent adult who knows from right and wrong, who just happens to enjoy watching dark red corn syrup explode on screen.

Just something to ponder.

Thanks to Eleni for the link.

Do you ever write something, and you're so impressed with it, and with yourself for writing it, and you want to show it to everybody, and to let everybody around know what a brilliant writer you are, and then you read it again after the euphoria wears off, and realize that it's only mediocre, or not really very good at all?

I do that all the time.

Halloween VIII news: This is really very disappointing. I'll probably still go see it, though.

Bizarre dreams last night. Murder & mayhem, epic adventure, Indiana Jones and Yoda.

The first took place at my office. Patrick Dempsey's character from Scream 3 was hanging around my desk, eating candy from the candy dish and acting all chummy, telling me I had nothing to worry about. He was there to question one of the auditors about a murder. The auditor in question is a really nice guy, so I was quite surprised to hear that he might have killed someone. Finally I sent Detective Dempsey down to the maintenance center to fetch some coffee. Little did I know that the suspect auditor was hiding there. He barracaded himself and Patrick Dempsey inside with the coffee. I don't know what was going on in that maintenance center, just that it was something really bad. I went out into the hall, and saw another co-worker trying to jimmy the back door to the maintenance room, and trying to talk the murdering auditor down. I warned her that she should just leave it be, but she got the door open, and as soon as she did a hand reached out and grabbed her around the throat and pulled her in, and blood splattered the door behind her as it slammed shut. This was followed by much screaming inside the office. I knew I should run away, but the odd thing was that for some reason I'd brought my dog to the office and he was still in there, and I wasn't about to leave him.

I woke up then, and wondered if I should take that dream as a sign that I should call in sick and stay home. Then I remembered Patrick Dempsey's presence, and that he wasn't really a detective, and he wouldn't very likely show up in the office, so the dream probably wasn't prophetic after all.

So then I wondered what lessons I could take away from the dream (I like to look at these dreams as a sort of practice run for if I'm ever actually in a situation where someone's trying to kill me ... I'm practical like that). Lesson #1: Never bring my dog to the office. Lesson #2: If a cop comes to the office to question somebody, don't let him hang around acting all chummy with me and eating my candy, so that the psycho won't think that I'm on the detective's side. If he thinks I'm on his side, perhaps the psycho will let me live, or at least will plan to kill me last, thereby giving me some more time in which to make my escape. Lesson #3: If an auditor goes postal and starts killing people in the office whilst I'm out in the hall, do not re-enter the office, but instead, run like hades down the stairs to the next floor (preferably 2 floors down, because that door has a combination lock. I have the combination, but likely the killer does not) and call for help from there. Once that's done, head to the elevator bank that does not extend all the way to the floor containing the killer, whick will likely not have been tampered with by said killer, and get myself the hell out of the building.

Okay. So if anyone here (besides me) goes mental and starts killing off his or her cubicle buddies, I've got myself an action plan.

That settled, I rolled over and went back to sleep. This time I dreamed something about Indiana Jones and my two dogs (my current dog and my late chihuahua, Mitzi) helping me fight off Nazis (I watched The Last Crusade on the Scifi channel last night). I didn't know what the Nazis were after, until we made our escape, and I realized that we were rescuing Yoda. This was where I had to pause. I told Indiana that we were getting his movies confused, but he said we didn't have time to quibble about it, we had to get to the getaway car before the Jedi Master fell into the hands of the Nazis. I didn't argue, as this did in fact sound like something I would want to help prevent. The getaway car was a '93 Honda civic, something I thought odd since it was supposed to be the 1930's, but again, we were pressed for time, so I didn't bring it up. At that point I realized that Mitzi was with us, and I was just really happy to see my tiny doggy. After that it all gets pretty fuzzy, and my alarm went off, ending the dream and beginning the nightmare that is my work day.

I didn't bring any lessons away from that one, other than that perhaps it's not a good idea to watch Indiana Jones movies and eat super rich chocolate fudge right before I go to bed.

Gentle readers, I am currently having one of those days.

Have you ever had one of those work days where you resent everything and everyone around you to the very core of your being?

Have you ever had one of those days where you just can't bring yourself to say anything nice to anybody, no matter what consequences the alternative might bring?

Have you ever had one of those days where you just can't bring yourself to do anything productive, no matter how major the consequences of non-productivity may be?

It's so nice that there are so many people in my office who know how to do my job better than I do. I'd be lost without their constant and oh-so-helpful instructions.

I've just had the realization that my company's United Way fundraiser week coincides with my vacation. Darn! I won't get to sell funnelcakes on my lunch hour this year!

Bryan J. Busch lashes out at one of my biggest grammatical pet peeves. Thank you, Bry.

Years ago I tried doing that with the phrase "Bite me."

Oh yeah! Nephew #1 was over this weekend, and he brought along his friend's copy of Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon," so yesterday we synched it up with "Wizard of Oz," wich made for a very interesting viewing experience. If you've never tried this before, you should. The coincidences are uncanny. The first track should begin on the MGM lion's third roar, the CD should be set to repeat. It's nifty.

Feeling much better now. After I went home Friday, I soaked in a tub full of Aveeno, then applied Gold Bond lotion (that stuff causes a strange sensation that's somewhere between burning and freezing, but By God, the itching stops!), after which I fell into a Benadryl-induced coma. I woke up and repeated the process a couple more times, and eventually, the itching went away. I still don't know what caused it.

I did manage to wake up and pull myself together long enough to go see "Arturo Brachetti: Quick-change Artist" make his US debut. This guy is like a cross between Roberto Begnini and Doug "It's Maaagic!" Henning. He's a bit of a spaz, but the straight-off-the-boat Italian cuteness and the amazingly cool shit he could do made up for it. I recommend catching his show, if you ever have the opportunity.

I think that instead of writing personal, individualized e-mails to my friends and fans, from now on I'm just going to add them all to a mailing list and send out one big, impersonal list-mail each week, plugging my website and repeating things you can read here, or sending phony virus warnings, whatever strikes my fancy. After all, that now seems to be an acceptable way of keeping in touch with old friends.

At least one of the above paragraphs should not be taken seriously. I'll let you decide which (but here's a tip-off: it contains the phrase, "my fans").

Not here in Podunk, USA she doesn't.

My fingers are all swolen.

I think I get to go home soon.

Itch. And burn.

Itch.

Itch. I itch. Everywhere. Every damn inch of my body. I itch in places I wasn't even aware I had.

I think maybe it was something I ate. I don't appear to have a rash, and I haven't tried any new lotions or detergents or anything. And yet I itch everywhere.

I'm going to go home later, if they'll let me. I should have called in sick, and stayed home to soak in a tub full of Aveeno, but I didn't want to waste a sick day on something so ridiculous. I thought maybe if I came to work and kept busy I'd get my mind off of the itching and it would go away. But all I can do is sit here and scratch. Damn, I'm miserable. I can't think about anything but making it stop. DAMN!

Oh, by the way, Eleni's on Ritalin now. This should be interesting ...

One more thing ... I'm so happy Chicklet's all better.

Old Suck: "Nicolas Cage was attached for several years to a re-do of the 1970s Christopher Reeve vehicle, best known for its prescient on-screen depiction of the voices in Margot Kidder's head."

That was just naughty.

For the record, those were really good shoes.

My feet are stalkworthy.

How do I know this? Because someone once stalked them.

Creepy, eh?

It happened back when I clerked the jewelry & accessories department at Dillard's. He was a crafty one, the Foot Stalker. Mostly he stalked them by phone, calling to ask what they were wearing; but he didn't come right out and ask, oh no. He was sneakier than that.

He first introduced himself as a fashion design student, doing a project on women's clothing in the workplace. He asked me to describe my outfit, and I, being bored and simple, obliged. It seemed legitimate enough, until he got to my feet.

"Can you describe your footwear?" he asked. I complied.

"What are you wearing on your legs?" he asked. I told him pantyhose.

"What kind?" he asked.

Umm ...

"Like, what color, are they reinforced," he clarified. Oh. Sandalfoot, I told him.

"I see," he said. "Can you do me a favor and slip your shoe off and describe your foot to me?"

I don't think so, no.

"It would really help my report," he said.

No, sorry.

"Are your toenails painted?"

I have to go now.

"Wait ... would it be alright if I came in the store to interview you in person and take some pictures?"

No.

"How about if we meet somewhere outside the store?"

No. I really have to go. Goodbye.

About a week later, he called back to follow up. I was wary, but not enough to totally disbelieve his cover story. Plus, as usual, I was bored. I went along with his interview ... until he got to my feet. Same line of bizarre questioning. I excused myself and ended the phone call.

Some time later, a gentleman came into my department claiming to be shopping for a gift for his girlfriend. He was interested in my shoes. I directed him to someone who actually worked in the shoe department, but he wouldn't go to them. He really liked my shoes. He followed me around asking me about them. He finally asked me to take them off so he could see how they were made inside. I excused myself to help another customer. He eventually went away.

I didn't make the connection.

A few days later, he called again. I didn't have time to talk that time.

A couple of weeks went by, and nothing. Then the same guy came in. Shopping for a gift. Really liked my shoes. Wanted me to take my shoes off. Didn't want to go to the shoe department. Then he started asking me about my pantyhose, and it clicked. It was the same voice from the phone. I excused myself and went to hide in a stockroom.

When I came out, he was gone. One of my coworkers came up and asked if he was my boyfriend. I said no, and asked why. She said he'd been hanging around the department for a long time before he started talking to me, watching me, and turning down their offers for help. She said after I went in the stock room he went upstairs.

Before we could finish our conversation, the phone in my area rang. I answered it.

It was a woman with a question about our hosiery ... or so I was supposed to believe. It sounded like a man trying to sound like a woman. "She" said "she" had a cold. "She" proceeded to ask me about the hosiery I was wearing, and asked me to slip my shoe off and describe my foot. I sent someone upstairs to check the payphone by the service desk. They did, and reported back that the guy from earlier was on it.

I told the "woman" that if he didn't leave me alone I would call security. He hung up. A minute later, he ran down the escalators and out of the store.

Amazingly enough, I still wasn't really freaked out by the incident. My co-workers, on the other hand, were, and they called security anyway. Security consisted of off-duty police officers. They took me aside and made me give them a detailed account of what happened, as well as a description of the guy. They then insisted that I call them to escort me to my car when my shift ended, and proceeded to lecture me on what to do if I notice anyone trying to follow me home.

As they told me all of this, I began thinking about that episode of X-Files about that guy with the hair and fingernails fetish, that started killing women and cutting off their fingers and hair and freezing them so he could eat them with his dinner. I suddenly imagined being ambushed by this guy and having my feet chopped off to serve as a trophy.

I became sufficiently freaked out.

Soon after, I quit my job at Dillard's. I haven't seen or heard from the Foot Stalker since.

But it's nice that I have stalk-worthy feet.

It's nearly 11 and I've only had one cup of coffee today.

That would explain the headache.

"Oops, I did it again
blah something blah blah
something something
I'm not that innocent!"

Maybe getting it stuck in your head will cleanse it from mine. Either that or we'll share my misery. Either way makes me feel better.

And I am a 27 year old girl. For criminy's sake, I'm supposed to be working on rewrites and I'm sitting here making up silly phrases for the Babelfish to translate (and entertaining myself to no end doing it, too). And my big plans for tonight are to go home and read Batman.

Like Stephanie said, no wonder I don't have a boyfriend. God, I'm such a loser.

I can't bring myself to feel badly about it, though.

Heh. The translations back to English never match what you started with, but they can be even more entertaining.

Fun with Babelfish: "Soporte detrás, queso de la punta para los cerebros!"

Translate!

In the selling out department (hey, aren't I entitled to some kind of reward for all of my hard work? Yeah, that's what I thought): Freeride now offers Amazon.com gift certificates among it's rewards. They also offer practical things like free movie passes, Blockbuster certificates, restaurant certificates, and a crapload of other goodies. The point values for their rewards are reasonably low, and the points are ridiculously easy to earn. Feel like signing up? Good. Use me as a referral. My username is jcousins3. Thank you kindly.

Well. At least this page no longer crashes Netscape. However, said browser makes it look like feces. I don't know why. At least it's legible, which, at this point, is a thrilling accomplishment.

I've run all of my code through W3C's validators, and came up clean. So I'm guessing it's Netscape's problem. In that case, if you're using Netscape, my advice to you is: Deal.

I'm working out of order.

To do today:

• Read Filler
  
• Do everything on my task list that can't be put off until tomorrow
  
• Brainstorm w/ Eleni
  
• Try to figure out why the hell this page crashes Netscape and why IE likes to occasionally show a horizontal scrollbar for no apparant reason
  
• more FS rewrites
  
• go home, watch Survivor, then read the comics that arrived yesterday from Another Universe
  
• sleep
  
• wake up, repeat (with minor variations)

I think the assumption is that if someone comes here, for some inexplicable reason they do want to know. If they really want to know, they'll come back; but if they came here by accident, and didn't really want to know in the first place, they'll most likely never be back again.

When the same people show up in your visitor logs every day, it's not that much of a stretch to figure that some people actually find you interesting. It's good for the ego, and a good self-esteem booster, which I think is why so many people who claim low-to-nil self-esteem turn into flaming narcissists in their weblogs. The feedback we get creates the illusion of the attention we're not getting in real life.

... says Jean, soon-to-be Psych major and self-loathing web-narcissist.

You freaky-assed people with your freaky-assed Google searches ... shower pics of Bulma? My God, people, she's a freakin' cartoon character for crying out loud! You people worry me.

And I'm not even going to mention the fetish searches (and I'm certainly not going to link to them).

Things I have to look forward to:

• Tomorrow is Filler
  
• Saturday is Arturo Brachetti
  
• Three weeks from Saturday is Rent
  
• 6 days after that my vacation begins
  
• Three days after that I'll be in sunny Florida, wearing Goofy ears and making an idiot of myself over a giant stuffed mouse along with about a billion other tourists
  

That's about all I've got going right now. Hey, you take your distractions where you can get 'em.

But before you piss off, please note that The Mimsies have posted a couple of new songs at MP3.com. Good stuff. Go have a listen.

I suppose I should say congratulations on the LA gig, etc., but I feel like being petty.

Now piss off.

Nobody is returning my messages and I can't get any work done. And I'm tired of looking at this fucking computer. That's right, I said fucking. I'm not above it. Saying it, that is. Not that I'm above doing it, either, it's just that, well, you know ...

Aww, shit. Now I'm even more pissy than when I started this.

Everybody just piss off.

Lately I've been watching a lot of BBC America. The satellite dish is out of alignment -- it has been for a while, but nobody feels like climbing up on the roof to fix it -- and doesn't transmit properly to either my TV up in the attic or the big TV downstairs in the living room. The only TV that hasn't been affected is the one in the downstairs guestroom, so my mother and I usually both wind up in there in the evening. She's a big fan of British television, so when I don't whine loudly enough to get my way, that's usually what we end up watching.

Something I've noticed about these BBC produced programs (née programmes -- I am an American, after all [don't call me a Yank, I'm Southern]) is that they tend to cast real people. Real, honest-to-God, average looking, not necessarily unattractive but certainly not uncommonly beautiful, people.

Over here, Hollywood only casts pretty people. There are some exceptions, but for the most part, everyone on television here is beautiful. I'm not even going to get into how this creates an unrealistic standard of beauty and leads teenage girls to develop eating disorders in order to meet that standard and yadda yadda. It's just annoying to see a supposed average American sit-com family where everyone looks like Barbie and Ken.

So it's nice to see TV stars who look like people I could run into at Wal-Mart. I kind of enjoy seeing leading men who aren't Addonises, and I particularly like seeing leading ladies who aren't all liposuctioned and silicon-molded into a perfect form, but who, like real women, come in all shapes and sizes, and are still treated like beautiful women.

This is not to say that the UK doesn't have it's share of Beautiful People, but it's nice to see that those people don't create the standard; and the shows are possibly even more entertaining simply because the stars do look like regular folks you could meet in the street.

Wouldn't it be nice if Hollywood would get a clue?

I love my friend Terrence.

There. That just needed to be said.

Oddly enough, for what I believe is the first time ever, nobody bothered me, and I actually managed to write a whole paragraph. What sucks is that I'm in the groove, and could go on for another hour, but if I don't leave now it will be a spooky walk to my parking lot. Ah, well. They say that Ernest Hemingway always quit writing deliberately right in the middle of his creative flow, when he still had plenty to say, so that he'd be sure to have something to start with the next time he sat down to write. It kept him from ever having writer's block. Sounds like a good idea to me.

Err ... not getting any done. You know what I mean.

I'm staying late to try and get some writing done, because Lord knows I'm getting any done at home. Let's see how long I can go "on my own time" without getting interrupted and asked to do something by one of the other late workers.

I always said that, unmasked, Gaston Leroux's physical description of Erik might look a lot like Jack Skellington. Now I'm more convinced than ever that I'm right.

I'm also more convinced than ever that somebody should do good animated version of the story. Hell, give it to Tim Burton. Even if it wasn't faithful to the original, it'd still be a hell of a lot of fun to watch.

But mostly I slept all weekend. I was really very tired, and felt like hell because my hayfever was acting up. Saturday, though, I dragged myself out of bed in time enough to clean house before going to the movie. My mom was out of town again all week, and I let the house go to pot, and thought that it might be considerate of me to have it back to the way she left it by the time she returned. Whilst I cleaned, I listened to my entire Queen collection, which I don't think I've ever done before, at least not all in one stretch. I tend to forget how much I really like that band.

It began when I was a wee thing, when my brother, 9 years my senior and the epitome of cool, would hole up in his room, locking me out, and blaring News of the World throughout the house until our dad would regain consciousness and scream at him to turn it down. I've been a Queen fan ever since. Thankfully, my older sister's incessant playing and replaying of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack didn't leave as permanent an impression on me, at least not a good one. Although she really is to blame for my unabashed love for Styx.

I'm co-starring in dreams with dead kittens.

Silly Canadians.

I saw Hollow Man over the weekend. It was okay, but only just so. Though, it was pretty much ruined for me by all of the depictions of animal cruelty, including (spoiler - highlight to read) the brutal killing of a dog, none of which was really necessary. They were added either for gross-out effect, or to make us really hate Kevin Bacon's character, but they didn't have to add that in there to make me hate him. I'm no bleeding heart, and I do realize that none of it was real, but it wasn't something I wanted to watch. Other than that, the plot really wasn't all that compelling, the characters were underdeveloped, and it wasn't very scary; but it did have a few bright points, including an impressive tough-girl performance by Elizabeth Shue, and Josh Brolin. He didn't need to do anything, just being there was enough. Especially the shirtless scenes. Yow.

Old Jedi never die, they just become one with the Force.

SIGH

Yeah, but I think this is going to do it for the rest of the year. I had to do one more to get it out of my system before I go focus on my other stuff.

I'm going home now. Have a good weekend, people. And stop following me! I mean it!

Again, because I felt like it.

Last night I got Les Miserables stuck in my head (the whole score, not just one song), so today I brought it to work, hoping that listening to it would get it out of my head. Now I remember why I don't usually listen to my Broadway cd's at work. It's really hard to keep from singing along, and I'm afraid that I'll forget where I am and do it unconsciously. How embarrassing that would be.

Years and years ago, foolish young thing that I was, I ordered one of those Make Money by Typing at Home info packets, because it sounded like a good idea at the time. I never did anything with it. I've never owned my own business (apart from occasionally taking money for helping someone with their web site or trying to be a freelance writer); yet ever since then, I've been receiving all kinds of junk mail for independent entrepreneurs, seminars, one of a kind business opportunities, how to get rich without ever actually working for a living, and what-not. Mildly annoying, but nothing I can't simply toss in the garbage with my Free AOL trial membership disks.

Lately, however, it's begun to go beyond junk mail to phone calls. Last night, for example:

"Hello?" I answered the phone.

"Is this Jean Cousins?" a woman asked.

"No," I lied, suspecting either a telemarketer or a creditor, to neither of whom I wanted to speak.

Telemarketer: "Is she available?"

Me: "No."

Telemarketer: "Well, when would be a good time for me to call?"

Me: "What is this in regard to?"

Telemarketer: "I received her name from [some mailing list that I've never intentionally signed up for], where she is listed as an at-home entrepreneur, and I'd like to tell her about a powerful business opportunity."

A powerful business opportunity! Hot damn! Between that and forwarding the Microsoft-Disney beta test e-mail chain to every single perosn I've ever known in the history of my life, I'm guaranteed to get rich and never have to work a day in my life! Plus I get a free trip to Disney World! Woo-hoo!

"That's nice," I say.

Telemarketer: "So, when should I call to discuss this?"

Me: "Try during the daytime, on weekdays, when she's usually in her home office, hard at work on her successful home business."

Telemarketer: "Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time, then?"

Me: "Sure."

Telemarketer: "Thank you. Have a nice evening."

Sucker.

Why? Because I felt like it, that's why.

You know, I still get choked up whenever I come across a picture of Mitzi.

AICN -
"COYOTE UGLY is a film by, about, and for dumb-asses."

And here I thought for sure it would be an Oscar contender.

Try ginseng. I take it, and it helps.

I've been watching Ultraviolet all week on the Sci Fi Channel, trying to figure out where the heck I knew Philip Quast, the actor playing the priest, from. For a musical theater buff, I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes.

The FDA has approved Concerta, a slow-release, twelve hour form of Ritalin. This is great news. When I go back to school I'll have to take night classes -- really loooong night classes -- and I was wondering how the hell I'd be able to sit through them after my Ritalin wears off. If I switch to this it should get me through work and classes. Plus I won't have those spacey episodes throughout the day, when one dose wears off but it's not time yet for my next dose. My bosses should appreciate that.

Alison has a nice new design. Very pretty, though I really liked the fish in a blender. But this is nice, too.

Re: Survivor -- I threw a pillow across the room last night when Rich won immunity, I was so mad. I hate that guy.

Last night Bif Naked was on Buffy, and I liked her well enough to download some of her songs from Napster, which I've been playing all day. I've decided that I like her well enough to go buy the CD.

Segue into a rant about all this Napster rigamarole ...

Here in the middle of the United States, you don't get exposed to very much music that's not on somebody's Top 40 list (or on TRL). If it weren't for being able to trade mp3's online, I'd never have been exposed to Bif Naked, VAST, Sleater-Kinney, Blue October, or any of the other bands or artists I've come to appreciate lately.

What's more, I don't go buy music that I can hear on the radio. This is mostly a hold-over from my childhood, when we didn't have money for things like CD's (or even cassette tapes), so I had to content myself with the radio. As I began making my own money, my music buying fund always went for things I couldn't hear on the radio. Part of this is because I'm cheap and don't like to pay for music I can hear for free. It's also because the radio stations play the same crap over and over again and by the time I have money to blow on CD's, I'm sick to death of every single song that I hear on the radio.

I've bought cd's of bands I've downloaded from Napster. That goes against my policy of not paying for music I can get for free, but if I rely on my mp3's for my listening pleasure, I'll only ever get to listen to good music while I'm at work, on my high bandwidth computer. I can't listen to mp3's in my car, and I don't have enough bandwidth to download them at home -- even if I did, the sound on my laptop is pitiful. So, I go buy the cd.

My cd collection has increased exponentially since I've begun using Napster. From what I've seen of recent cd sales figures, this is true for a lot of people.

The way I see it, Napster is a lot like a pirate radio station, except that we get to program our own music. And it's still a lot more difficult and expensive to burn an mp3 into a recordable cd than it is to tape a song off of the radio or dub a cd. How is the online trading of mp3's any worse, any more of a copyright infringement, than trading custom cassettes full of unauthorized copies of music? Somebody please explain this to me. I just don't get it.

Filler was pretty funny today. In fact, a lot of people must think so, because suddenly I've got a lot of referrals from searches on Heather Havrilesky.

Sorry to disappoint you, for though I am a fan of Heather's, this is not a Heather Havrilesky fan site.

Neither is it a Survivor fan site, for that matter, so you can all quit looking here to find out who won.

Actually, I swear that Rich was on Dateline NBC before the first episode of Survivor aired, defending himself against allegations of abusing his adopted son, and I could swear that they mentioned repeatedly during the story that Rich had turned out to be the winner. Maybe I was on something at the time. I actually kind of hope that's the case. I'm beginning to hate Rich and his smug attitude and his big white nekkid behind. Nothing would make me happier than to see him get voted off tonight.

But I'm really quite certain that the Dateline story said he won.

Someday, I'll most likely look back at all this (this log, this site ... you know) and have the good sense to be thoroughly embarrassed by it all.

Today, however, is not that day.

I just dropped about $45 in the Batman store at Another Universe, just on back issues, trying to plug some of the holes in my collection that I let develop over the last couple of months. I haven't even ordered this month's comics yet. The X-Men movie, and all of the publicity surrounding it, has been tempting me to get back into the X-Men comics again, but I don't really see that happening. I already spend an average of $60 a month on Batman titles, and there are almost twice as many X-Men titles each month (I could never limit myself to just a core group of favorites, I always had to have them all). Then I'd have to find time to read them all. Plus, I'd have to hunt down significant back issues that would tell me what the hell has happened to various characters (i.e. how/when did Cyclops die, when exactly and under what circumstances did Pete Wisdom take over X-Force and where the hell is Cable?). No way can I afford the time or money to take up that habit again. I suppose I'll have to just keep gleaning plot summaries from various web sites.

Or I could give up comics altogether and spend my time and money on entirely more grown-up and feminine things.

Yeah, right. That reminds me of an exchange I had the other day at a toy store. I bought a stuffed R2-D2 that beeps and whistles when you squeeze him (it's really very cool).

"Do you want it gift wrapped?" asked the clerk.

"No thanks," I replied, "he's just for me."

"Ah," said the clerk, and then, upon inspection of my check, which was from the DC Superhero series, "You're kind of into this sort of thing, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I replied, "kind of."

He nodded, handed me my bag and receipt, and I headed toward the exit, where my friend Stephanie was waiting. She asked about my exchange with the clerk. I repeated it to her.

"No wonder you don't have a boyfriend," she said.

Whatever.

Damn, people, do you realize it's August already? We're into the eighth month of the year, a year that I could swear just started a few weeks ago.

When I was a kid, I thought my parents were insane, the way they went on about how time speeds up as you get older. Then, for me, time crawled along at an agonizingly slow pace. I waited, and waited, and anticipated, for what seemed like a lifetime (when you're little, a lifetime for you isn't really very long at all, but you don't know that yet), for Christmas, only to hear my mother meet the season with "What? It's Christmastime already? I can't believe how fast this year has gone by."

These are the kinds of thoughts that keep me awake at night (actually, last night it was that my legs hurt, and that I hoped my nephew got home from band practice okay, and that I hope they don't screw up Gambit if he's in the next X-Men movie, and how likely it is that Mr. Sinister is his father ... but usually my insomnia-producing thought processes are at least somewhat more profound) (except for that one night when I couldn't go to sleep until I'd named every single Muppet from the classic Muppet Show) (anyway ...). Is time actually speeding up? Are we caught up in some kind of entropy effect, from which there is no escape? I tell myself I've got my whole life ahead of me, that there is plenty of time to do all of the things I want to do with my life, but then I blink, and another year has gone by, wasted. This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

Or maybe it's simply perspective. When you're little, you anticipate everything with wonderment and excitement: Christmas; birthdays; the first day of school; the last day of school; trips to Wal-Mart. Time seems to go so slowly because you can't wait for these things. Everything is new.

When you become an adult, the same things you looked forward to as a child become the things you dread. You no longer look forward to these things. You simply get through them. Even Christmas tends to have the joy sucked right out of it. Time goes so quickly now because we're not paying attention to it. There are exceptions when it seems to slow down: a slow work day, being stuck in traffic, standing in line ... but it's no longer anticipation that draws our attention to time, but our awareness that there is never enough of it, and our irritation at having even a minute of what's left of it wasted by something beyond our control.

We're so funny about time, the way we guard it, and the way we waste it. Right now I'm worrying that I don't have enough time today to get all of my work done, yet I'm spending a significant amount of that time posting an insignificant rant to an insignificant web site. If someone were to stop by my desk right now to chat, I'd become irritated with them for wasting my time, but once they left I'd go right back to wasting it on my own.

Something is wrong with that, I think.