Websters Dictionary definition of Windows 95 -
Windows95: n. 32 bit extensions and a graphical shell for a 16 bit patch to an 8 bit operating system originally coded for a 4 bit microprocessor, written by a 2 bit company, that cant stand 1 bit of competition.
Ridge Hall computer assistant; may I help you?"
"Yes, well, Im having trouble with WordPerfect."
"What sort of trouble?"
"Well, I was just typing along, and all of a sudden the words went away."
"Went away?"
"They disappeared."
"Hmm. So what does your screen look like now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Its blank; it wont accept anything when I type."
"Are you still in WordPerfect, or did you get out?"
"How do I tell?"
"Can you see the C: prompt on the screen?"
"Whats a sea-prompt?"
"Never mind. Can you move the cursor around on the screen?"
"There isn't any cursor, I told you, it wont accept anything I type."
"Does your monitor have a power indicator?"
"What's a monitor?"
"Its the thing with the screen on it that looks like a TV. Does it have a little light that tells you when its on?"
"I don't know."
"Well then, look on the back of the monitor and find where the power cord goes into it. Can you see that?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Great. Follow the cord to the plug, and tell me if its plugged into the wall."
"... ...Yes, it is."
"When you were behind the monitor, did you notice that there were two cables plugged into the back of it, not just one?"
"No."
"Well, there are. I need you to look back there again and find the other cable."
"... ...Okay, here it is."
"Follow it for me, and tell me if its plugged securely into the back of your computer."
"I cant reach."
"Uh huh. Well, can you see if it is?"
"No."
"Even if you maybe put your knee on something and lean way over?"
"Oh, its not because I dont have the right angle - its because its dark."
"Dark?"
"Yes - the office light is off, and the only light I have is coming in from the window."
"Well, turn on the office light then."
"I cant."
"No? Why not?"
"Because theres a power outage."
"A power... A power outage? Ah, Okay, we've got it licked now. Do you still have the boxes and manuals and packing stuff your computer came in?"
"Well, yes, I keep them in the closet."
"Good. Go get them, and unplug your system and pack it up just like it was when you got it. Then take it back to the store you bought it from."
"Really? Is it that bad?"
"Yes, Im afraid it is."
"Well, all right then, I suppose. What do I tell them?"
"Tell them you're too stupid to own a computer."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, you have to love the idiots of society. I bet the caller was all righteous and indignant that the 'words went away' too.
Oh, lets all hear it for working from 3pm until 12.30am. Hip hip hurrah, nine and a half hour shift. No break. Hip hip Hurrah.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Thursday, 22 May 2008
A Summers Evening and an Autumn Morn.
(Read the post 'On a Summers Day' first. Then this one'll make ALOT more sense.)
The body was Andrew McPhearson, the child, one Julie Andrews, and enither were the same. One, obviously, went to the morgue to be identified by dental records-- that's all they could use -- the other went catatonic, in order to save itself the mind rejected the cruel world around it and created one of its own devising.
Outwardly she was a silent, simple girl, no interest in interaction of any sort, she ate when forced to and broke her mothers heart by refusing to look at her, but through, always through, fixed on some distant point where crimson-black blood pooled, where dark blow flies droned and the sickly sweet scent of decay filled the air, where all the noise in the world couldn't break the shattering silence of an unvoiced scream.
The media behaved as it is wont to do, flocking and fluttering, scavenging and prying, delving sticky fingers into badly healed -- barely begun to heal -- wounds and pulling the ugly, foul, tittilating bits to a harsh and unforgiving spotlight. As expected, the summers day, bright with life, was replayed, repeated, displayed in a thousand different ways until public opinion deemed the entire thing a hoax, just some family's craving to be on television.
Never mind the shattered family of the deceased, never mind the previous happy, healthy child driven to seek her own world. Neve rmind the anguish the fluttering, craving, prying, uncaring fingers -- and eyes -- of the media caused. It was all a hoax, a plot, a conspiracy, a trick.
The medias loss of interest was a blessing that came too late -- too late for Andrew's family to have the required privacy to mourn, too late for little Julie, who having to relive, and then witness it from a dramatised perspective, listen from a thousand different mouths -- why would anyone desire to remain in such a heartless world? So little Julie refused to make even the little progress she had out of her self-imposed prison, retreating in so far that she barely had any desire to eat, each mouthful swallowed was a hard won victory.
Life went on, as its wont to do, two months passed, three, and the media forgot about Julie Andrews and Andrew McPhearson. Summer changed to Autumn, dusky and brown from bright gold.
It was a crisp Autumn morning, the mist was clinging to the ground and every breath fogged in the air. The scent of winter was in the air, it was a taste on the back of the tongue, crisp, icy, chillingly close with the illusionary softness of snow. Rosy-cheeked from the cold, laughter and playing in the piles of fallen leaves, the child, a little boy, six or seven, ran behind a tree, out of his parents' concerned and watchfully indulgent gaze. All was well.
A peircing scream split the air. Followed by two more, then naught but helpless, hopeless sobbing.
Rushing to look, the mother added her screams to the shattered peace, before dropping to her knees to embrace and rock her sobbing son.
Strung out between two trees in a crude X, head lolled back in the limp, absolute relaxation of the dead and unconsious, was another body.
(Warning for those with tender stomaches, it gets graphic)
The skin, rather than removed completely, had been peeled back to expose the muscle and sinew beneath. Strung out, stretched thin by fish-hooks through the nearly transparant flesh, the light shining through, illuminating veins, capillaries, arteries, trails of brilliant red -- fire-engine red -- blood trailed down from the wounds, slowly seeping lower with each painful second.
The internal organs had been painstakingly, lovingly, removed and strung out, netted and woven among the branches of the two trees, the metres of intestine almost braided, intricate, lace, the stomach caught in the dark grey webbing. The lungs were pulled out of the chest cavity, the ribcage pulled open like some glistening, banded, red and white butterfly, the sternum cut clean through. The heart stretched out, the lungs likewise exposed, two pink sacks hanging, stretched in the air. In this mass was the body, the skin a backdrop for the macabre web, where the own internal organs were the bands that trapped the 'fly'.
It was too cold for the flies, so their droning swarm was absent, no moving black tide of hungry bodies swarming, moving, writhing over flesh and skin alike. The blood dripping, slowly seeping down the skin to plop ever so slowly onto the dry leaves was still wet, still fresh, still warm, still flowing. The strung out, web-captured body jerked and a helpless, hopeless whimper of pain sounded, silencing the sobbing into a gasp of horrified shock.
"Oh Dear God, it's still alive!"
The body was Andrew McPhearson, the child, one Julie Andrews, and enither were the same. One, obviously, went to the morgue to be identified by dental records-- that's all they could use -- the other went catatonic, in order to save itself the mind rejected the cruel world around it and created one of its own devising.
Outwardly she was a silent, simple girl, no interest in interaction of any sort, she ate when forced to and broke her mothers heart by refusing to look at her, but through, always through, fixed on some distant point where crimson-black blood pooled, where dark blow flies droned and the sickly sweet scent of decay filled the air, where all the noise in the world couldn't break the shattering silence of an unvoiced scream.
The media behaved as it is wont to do, flocking and fluttering, scavenging and prying, delving sticky fingers into badly healed -- barely begun to heal -- wounds and pulling the ugly, foul, tittilating bits to a harsh and unforgiving spotlight. As expected, the summers day, bright with life, was replayed, repeated, displayed in a thousand different ways until public opinion deemed the entire thing a hoax, just some family's craving to be on television.
Never mind the shattered family of the deceased, never mind the previous happy, healthy child driven to seek her own world. Neve rmind the anguish the fluttering, craving, prying, uncaring fingers -- and eyes -- of the media caused. It was all a hoax, a plot, a conspiracy, a trick.
The medias loss of interest was a blessing that came too late -- too late for Andrew's family to have the required privacy to mourn, too late for little Julie, who having to relive, and then witness it from a dramatised perspective, listen from a thousand different mouths -- why would anyone desire to remain in such a heartless world? So little Julie refused to make even the little progress she had out of her self-imposed prison, retreating in so far that she barely had any desire to eat, each mouthful swallowed was a hard won victory.
Life went on, as its wont to do, two months passed, three, and the media forgot about Julie Andrews and Andrew McPhearson. Summer changed to Autumn, dusky and brown from bright gold.
It was a crisp Autumn morning, the mist was clinging to the ground and every breath fogged in the air. The scent of winter was in the air, it was a taste on the back of the tongue, crisp, icy, chillingly close with the illusionary softness of snow. Rosy-cheeked from the cold, laughter and playing in the piles of fallen leaves, the child, a little boy, six or seven, ran behind a tree, out of his parents' concerned and watchfully indulgent gaze. All was well.
A peircing scream split the air. Followed by two more, then naught but helpless, hopeless sobbing.
Rushing to look, the mother added her screams to the shattered peace, before dropping to her knees to embrace and rock her sobbing son.
Strung out between two trees in a crude X, head lolled back in the limp, absolute relaxation of the dead and unconsious, was another body.
(Warning for those with tender stomaches, it gets graphic)
The skin, rather than removed completely, had been peeled back to expose the muscle and sinew beneath. Strung out, stretched thin by fish-hooks through the nearly transparant flesh, the light shining through, illuminating veins, capillaries, arteries, trails of brilliant red -- fire-engine red -- blood trailed down from the wounds, slowly seeping lower with each painful second.
The internal organs had been painstakingly, lovingly, removed and strung out, netted and woven among the branches of the two trees, the metres of intestine almost braided, intricate, lace, the stomach caught in the dark grey webbing. The lungs were pulled out of the chest cavity, the ribcage pulled open like some glistening, banded, red and white butterfly, the sternum cut clean through. The heart stretched out, the lungs likewise exposed, two pink sacks hanging, stretched in the air. In this mass was the body, the skin a backdrop for the macabre web, where the own internal organs were the bands that trapped the 'fly'.
It was too cold for the flies, so their droning swarm was absent, no moving black tide of hungry bodies swarming, moving, writhing over flesh and skin alike. The blood dripping, slowly seeping down the skin to plop ever so slowly onto the dry leaves was still wet, still fresh, still warm, still flowing. The strung out, web-captured body jerked and a helpless, hopeless whimper of pain sounded, silencing the sobbing into a gasp of horrified shock.
"Oh Dear God, it's still alive!"
Monday, 19 May 2008
On a Summers Day
It was the height of summer, the sky was a brilliant, breathtaking blue, the sort of blue that reaches up and DEMANDS your attention. The distant, merry laughter of children filtered through the air, mingled with the birdsong and the drone of busy bees. The world was bursting, overflowing with warmth, life, happiness.
And then the screams started.
Down a little way from the bees, just around the bend from the children, there was a droning. Not the almost musical buzz of the bees, no, this was the heavy, bloated droning of fat blowflies, their brilliant blue back sparkling in the sunlight like morbid jewels. The black with flashing blue tide crawled, buzzed, and swarmed over the ground and a single tree.
The first scream disturbed a few, not many, but enough for their meal to be seen.
A puddle of thick, black as tar blood on the bright green, rich, vibrant grass. More crimson black smears marred the smoothe wood of the tree, splatters and painted strips. But that wasn't what drew the scream, the second one, not of fright like the first, but of horror, of a deep abiding disgust.
Oddly enough, apart from that single, thick puddle, the grass is clean. And it is only the one tree, smeared, specked and caked with the sludgy, viscous, crimson black blood in the small thatch, the rest are clean, pristine, unmarked.
But the source of the blood, concealed beneath those heavy, hungry, shifting black bodies, the lone figure hanging from the branches, bloated in the heat, almost bursting, like some obscene fruit begging to be plucked, that is what drew the second horrified scream that shattered the shocked silence following the first.
For, it wasn't just hanging, covered with droning flies, bloated, tied by the ankles, no, that would be bad enough. But it -- not a man, not a woman, not a child but a dead, bloated buzzing thing -- had been skinned.
(Warning for those of tender stomaches, it gets graphic.)
The head was featureless, eyes gouged out, or rather, surgically removed from the orbits and yanked free. The nose removed, lips likewise, ears, scalp, then each slender strip of flesh carved from the face, leaving a morbid mockery of a skull, blood caked and writhing with flies. Oddly, morbidly, the tongue and throat were left intact, the skinning starting at the collarbones. The arms stripped of flesh as well as skin, bones visible, connected by gleaming sinew and tendon. The ribcage glittering, gleaming through the flies and the thick, black blood. The stomach retained the muscle, holding the bloating of swollen organs within, but the pelvis glimmered. A dark grey rope slithered out, wrapped painstakingly, almost lovingly, around the bones. The legs were simply skinned, simply used as they retained the meat, the flesh, but linked together with steel rods bent around the bones. Just the merest scrap of skin at the edges of the rods give the hint that maybe, just maybe, the victim wasn't dead when impaled ...or worse.
A third scream, high, wild, piteous came from the child, an innocent who went searching for the ball, the peircing, poignant scream of encroaching madness. Because dangling there, bloated, skinned, mutilated, the dead writhing with a mimicry of life, induced by the walking, crawling, buzzing black tide searching beneath the flesh, it seemed to reach for the child, reach with those skinned, fleshless arms.
A fourth scream came, hard on the heels of the third, ringing louder, higher, madness shattering. And as the child screamed, the body swinging, buzzing, bloated, flies taking their crimson black meal, the corpse screamed too.
And then the screams started.
Down a little way from the bees, just around the bend from the children, there was a droning. Not the almost musical buzz of the bees, no, this was the heavy, bloated droning of fat blowflies, their brilliant blue back sparkling in the sunlight like morbid jewels. The black with flashing blue tide crawled, buzzed, and swarmed over the ground and a single tree.
The first scream disturbed a few, not many, but enough for their meal to be seen.
A puddle of thick, black as tar blood on the bright green, rich, vibrant grass. More crimson black smears marred the smoothe wood of the tree, splatters and painted strips. But that wasn't what drew the scream, the second one, not of fright like the first, but of horror, of a deep abiding disgust.
Oddly enough, apart from that single, thick puddle, the grass is clean. And it is only the one tree, smeared, specked and caked with the sludgy, viscous, crimson black blood in the small thatch, the rest are clean, pristine, unmarked.
But the source of the blood, concealed beneath those heavy, hungry, shifting black bodies, the lone figure hanging from the branches, bloated in the heat, almost bursting, like some obscene fruit begging to be plucked, that is what drew the second horrified scream that shattered the shocked silence following the first.
For, it wasn't just hanging, covered with droning flies, bloated, tied by the ankles, no, that would be bad enough. But it -- not a man, not a woman, not a child but a dead, bloated buzzing thing -- had been skinned.
(Warning for those of tender stomaches, it gets graphic.)
The head was featureless, eyes gouged out, or rather, surgically removed from the orbits and yanked free. The nose removed, lips likewise, ears, scalp, then each slender strip of flesh carved from the face, leaving a morbid mockery of a skull, blood caked and writhing with flies. Oddly, morbidly, the tongue and throat were left intact, the skinning starting at the collarbones. The arms stripped of flesh as well as skin, bones visible, connected by gleaming sinew and tendon. The ribcage glittering, gleaming through the flies and the thick, black blood. The stomach retained the muscle, holding the bloating of swollen organs within, but the pelvis glimmered. A dark grey rope slithered out, wrapped painstakingly, almost lovingly, around the bones. The legs were simply skinned, simply used as they retained the meat, the flesh, but linked together with steel rods bent around the bones. Just the merest scrap of skin at the edges of the rods give the hint that maybe, just maybe, the victim wasn't dead when impaled ...or worse.
A third scream, high, wild, piteous came from the child, an innocent who went searching for the ball, the peircing, poignant scream of encroaching madness. Because dangling there, bloated, skinned, mutilated, the dead writhing with a mimicry of life, induced by the walking, crawling, buzzing black tide searching beneath the flesh, it seemed to reach for the child, reach with those skinned, fleshless arms.
A fourth scream came, hard on the heels of the third, ringing louder, higher, madness shattering. And as the child screamed, the body swinging, buzzing, bloated, flies taking their crimson black meal, the corpse screamed too.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
How to say 'farewell' to $300+ in 30 seconds flat.
That's $10 a second. Steal.
I have realised, discovered really I suppose, that I am a very very bad impulse buyer. Most impulse buyers buy -little- things, on whim. Like chocolates while standing at the counter, stuff like that. Not me, nooooo, I behave myself, I limit myself to $50 a week for food and drinks and stuff, for MONTHS and painstakingly save, build up my bank account and everything aand... for what? For my account to hit the $400 mark and I go ooooh, I'm rich! So I go and buy stuff.
Like today. I took out $100, bought three books ($60), and, what I lament the most in buying on whim, is a PSP and a game. Because you see, it doesn't stop there! Oh no! I have to buy a memory stick and a cover as well, since my PSP will spend the majority of time in my backpack -- on the theory that I'll spend less on books if I've got a new toy to play with. And shame on you that thought I should buy naughty toys to play with! Yes, I mean -you-.
So alas, I am broke. For a week. Then I'll be rich with $200 of pay...and broke. To pay bills. Then a bit richer....then more broke. It'll take me a little while of doing sweet stuff all to build my bank account up to comfortable levels. Meaning that I can impulse buy expensive things that the majority of people would save up for months to purchase and pet and drool over.
I'm the worst kind of impulse buyer -- the rich kind. :(
I have realised, discovered really I suppose, that I am a very very bad impulse buyer. Most impulse buyers buy -little- things, on whim. Like chocolates while standing at the counter, stuff like that. Not me, nooooo, I behave myself, I limit myself to $50 a week for food and drinks and stuff, for MONTHS and painstakingly save, build up my bank account and everything aand... for what? For my account to hit the $400 mark and I go ooooh, I'm rich! So I go and buy stuff.
Like today. I took out $100, bought three books ($60), and, what I lament the most in buying on whim, is a PSP and a game. Because you see, it doesn't stop there! Oh no! I have to buy a memory stick and a cover as well, since my PSP will spend the majority of time in my backpack -- on the theory that I'll spend less on books if I've got a new toy to play with. And shame on you that thought I should buy naughty toys to play with! Yes, I mean -you-.
So alas, I am broke. For a week. Then I'll be rich with $200 of pay...and broke. To pay bills. Then a bit richer....then more broke. It'll take me a little while of doing sweet stuff all to build my bank account up to comfortable levels. Meaning that I can impulse buy expensive things that the majority of people would save up for months to purchase and pet and drool over.
I'm the worst kind of impulse buyer -- the rich kind. :(
Monday, 12 May 2008
Pause
Pause. Take a deep breath and just pause.
Wait. Take the time to centre yourself.
Close your eyes, listen to the sound of your inner voice.
Silence it.
Be surrounded by the sound of your breath.
In...and...out....
and in....and...out...
Calm. Breathe. Listen. Remember.
Remember the sound of the wind through the trees on a gentle, sleepy, summers day.
Remember that soothing, peaceful feeling you got, or get, in falling asleep on one of your parents'. So safe, and warm, and contented. The gentle stroking of a loving hand through your hair, how it soothed you, made you smile in your sleep, made you drift off even if you were wide awake.
Now pause.
Take that feeling, that moment, that serenity and envelope yourself with it, snuggle into it like a soft, warm blanket on a cold winters night.
Remember.
Hold it with you, always. So that when the world intrudes with its stresses and anxiety and demands for attention, NOW, you can shunt it off to one side and be wrapped in that muffling, soft, warm serenity of peace.
Wait. Take the time to centre yourself.
Close your eyes, listen to the sound of your inner voice.
Silence it.
Be surrounded by the sound of your breath.
In...and...out....
and in....and...out...
Calm. Breathe. Listen. Remember.
Remember the sound of the wind through the trees on a gentle, sleepy, summers day.
Remember that soothing, peaceful feeling you got, or get, in falling asleep on one of your parents'. So safe, and warm, and contented. The gentle stroking of a loving hand through your hair, how it soothed you, made you smile in your sleep, made you drift off even if you were wide awake.
Now pause.
Take that feeling, that moment, that serenity and envelope yourself with it, snuggle into it like a soft, warm blanket on a cold winters night.
Remember.
Hold it with you, always. So that when the world intrudes with its stresses and anxiety and demands for attention, NOW, you can shunt it off to one side and be wrapped in that muffling, soft, warm serenity of peace.
Saturday, 10 May 2008
Don't you just looooove...
The way that bookstores have the BEGINNING of a series, and the END of that same series, but y'know, it's missing the MIDDLE of said series? By say, four books?
Yeah, its wonderful.
Another thing that's absolutely wonderful is the way people at work tend to expect -one- person to -always- do something, say for example, serve customers in the dead end of the night with no help, and, then consequently, yell at said person for not getting their jobs done. Isn't it just darling and wonderful?
No matter where I am rostered during the shift, out front, on drive pack, in the drive box, at the end of the night, guranteed, I will be the SOLE PERSON serving customers. So I'll run from one end of the store to the other to serve customers, and then get yelled at when I yell for someone to take lobby. I get "can't you do it?!" and I'm like ...um no, I have a few CARS TO SERVE. And they get all huffy but serve. Or, if they don't, I dart between two people, packing two things at once, and then when the customers complain, and the boss starts chewing my ass out, I retort and say YOU get someone else to help! I have to do my stuffing jobs, and it's a bit hard when you've gotta be in TWO PLACES AT ONCE.
Or it'd be a classic, someone calls "ANGELA, customers!" and I'd yell back "I can't, I was meant to go home an hour ago and I've still got MY JOBS TO DO." then there's the whole 'customers come first' ..yeah. Why do they only come first for ME and not anyone else? Argh!
I'm just a little ticked off, in case you can't tell. Seriously, I think I'll get a new job. Doing something simple, and easy, and friendly, like ...5 star waitressing or something. Y'know what's really funny though? I'm one of the ONLY people that does, and knows, our policy and actively does it, as well as our promos and whatnot, I know the menus BETTER than the managers, and yet, yet, I am the sole exemption from this prize doohicky we're doing, because I supposedly, once, just ONCE, gave a customer 'attitude' and was 'rude' to her, when y'know, it was the middle of the dinner rush and I was doing bloody six things at once, running lobby and two trainees at the same time. Isn't it wonderful, that I'm currently, supposedly, on the bottom of the bloody ladder in this rank thingy, and I'm one of the BEST PEOPLE THEY HAVE.
So yeah. It's just wonderful. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Oh, I've also completely dumped my boyfriend. I took him back for a whole two days because I felt horrid, as the last post tells, and this time I felt much better about it and all. So now he hates me, or wants to or something, but I'm good. I'm a bit too stressed out over uni (six things due over two weeks, lovely, now I've got an extension, so one due this week, another due next) to be worrying overmuch about my private life. Its no big after all.
I'm seriously considering quitting and finding another job. Like, seriously. Even though I'm lazy and it involves writing, updating my resume, which is a pain. But hey, it's all good. I might even get paid more, y'never know, what with working in fast food and all.
Yeah, I think that about covers the majority of things, and I'm gonna go ...do something... before I get more irate and punch the wall. I kinda need both of my hands in working order.
Yeah, its wonderful.
Another thing that's absolutely wonderful is the way people at work tend to expect -one- person to -always- do something, say for example, serve customers in the dead end of the night with no help, and, then consequently, yell at said person for not getting their jobs done. Isn't it just darling and wonderful?
No matter where I am rostered during the shift, out front, on drive pack, in the drive box, at the end of the night, guranteed, I will be the SOLE PERSON serving customers. So I'll run from one end of the store to the other to serve customers, and then get yelled at when I yell for someone to take lobby. I get "can't you do it?!" and I'm like ...um no, I have a few CARS TO SERVE. And they get all huffy but serve. Or, if they don't, I dart between two people, packing two things at once, and then when the customers complain, and the boss starts chewing my ass out, I retort and say YOU get someone else to help! I have to do my stuffing jobs, and it's a bit hard when you've gotta be in TWO PLACES AT ONCE.
Or it'd be a classic, someone calls "ANGELA, customers!" and I'd yell back "I can't, I was meant to go home an hour ago and I've still got MY JOBS TO DO." then there's the whole 'customers come first' ..yeah. Why do they only come first for ME and not anyone else? Argh!
I'm just a little ticked off, in case you can't tell. Seriously, I think I'll get a new job. Doing something simple, and easy, and friendly, like ...5 star waitressing or something. Y'know what's really funny though? I'm one of the ONLY people that does, and knows, our policy and actively does it, as well as our promos and whatnot, I know the menus BETTER than the managers, and yet, yet, I am the sole exemption from this prize doohicky we're doing, because I supposedly, once, just ONCE, gave a customer 'attitude' and was 'rude' to her, when y'know, it was the middle of the dinner rush and I was doing bloody six things at once, running lobby and two trainees at the same time. Isn't it wonderful, that I'm currently, supposedly, on the bottom of the bloody ladder in this rank thingy, and I'm one of the BEST PEOPLE THEY HAVE.
So yeah. It's just wonderful. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Oh, I've also completely dumped my boyfriend. I took him back for a whole two days because I felt horrid, as the last post tells, and this time I felt much better about it and all. So now he hates me, or wants to or something, but I'm good. I'm a bit too stressed out over uni (six things due over two weeks, lovely, now I've got an extension, so one due this week, another due next) to be worrying overmuch about my private life. Its no big after all.
I'm seriously considering quitting and finding another job. Like, seriously. Even though I'm lazy and it involves writing, updating my resume, which is a pain. But hey, it's all good. I might even get paid more, y'never know, what with working in fast food and all.
Yeah, I think that about covers the majority of things, and I'm gonna go ...do something... before I get more irate and punch the wall. I kinda need both of my hands in working order.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Shatter
It’s funny you know, at how swiftly you can go from being relatively normal to the brink of shattering, to where you have to hold onto yourself so very very tight, tight enough that your teeth grind against each other and your bones squeak in protest, yet if you let go, if you relax, you’ll shatter. Shatter into a million teeny tiny pieces that will never be picked up again, put back together, because each shard is sharp enough to kill, sharp enough to die, sharp enough to hurt and not care.
I almost shattered last night, shattered into those teeny tiny pieces, shattered because...well... because I hate myself. I really do. I’m horrid. My boyfriend will now no doubt agree with me, I’m a dreadful heartless bitch. Too distant to be touched, too distant from reality to care about others. I don’t know. I ...I warned him. I told him, I don’t care easily, I cannot love. Not the way you would love, or anyone else for that matter. My ‘love’ is selfish, it’s simply really a desire to not be so alone. But then, I deserve to be alone. I deserve to be single all my life, a spinster, a hermit, someone that goes to work then comes home and immerses herself in the electronic banalities of society.
I don’t have friends. Not really. I have people I interact with on a routine basis. Those I talk to occasionally in/before/after class, the occasional chat I have while working, perhaps a talk with my mother, the brief interactions with the people online, but that is all. I don’t ...stress I suppose you could say, that I don’t have a clique of friends to spend the weekends with – I’m usually working anyways so it’s no big.
But...Well. If -you- are the one that is initiating a break up, aren't -you- supposed to be not effected by it? I don't know. I've never.... I...
I really can't...I don't know. I'm shattering again, I can watch the fractures creep across the fragile inner me, creep creep ...spike...crack. Crawl across who I am like a disease, or the way that glass can crack into a million pieces just before it falls from the window. I'm ...afraid. Terrified. If I let myself shatter, if I ...stop desperately holding myself together, containing what I am, then my shattering will be fatal. And it scares me. It scares me so very very much.
If you had said to me, two days ago 'tomorrow you're going to try and dump your boyfriend and the day after see suicide looming as a very great possibility on the horizon' I would have laughed. I wouldn't have believed you. Two days ago, breaking up with him wasn't on my mind, I would have had a thousand other things hammering for attention -- movies to watch, books to read, or assignments to do which are still glaring at me in their unfinishedness. Suicide? yeah right, that was -last- year, I'm good this year. I've been to a counsellor, I'm 'fixed' or something.
But now ....
I can see it. I can see it through the fractures. If they fall, there won't be anything between me and ... I'm terrified to shatter, petrified. I don't want to shatter, I don't want to be nothing but depression and hate so I'm holding the flaws, holding the hate to me, holding it so tightly that my arms are aching, my teeth squeak against each other as I grind my jaw, my lungs are short of breath from the so tight grip I have on myself, that tight, fist hold that I need to have.
And already ....I know ...I can see ...I can't keep this iron grip forever. One day, something is going to knock me, nudge that fragile fracturing and all my careful grip has done was stave off the inevitable, and I'll shatter.
I'll shatter into a thousand, million, teeny tiny pieces of hurt, of hate, of self-loathing. One part of my mind is trying to deny this, deny that I'm so absolutely terrible, but it is a small part. A very small ...quiet...voice saying 'no no no, you're not. You're better!' and it's over powered by the voice that says 'you're a piece of worthless shit, you have no heart, you're heartless, empty and filled with a black, cold void of nothing. There is no light, no life, no love. You -deserve- to be hurting like this, you deserve to be hated, you deserve to be alone. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anybody. It's only a matter of time until the world realises how very worthless and pathetic you are. You've done the deed, or at least he thinks so, and is hurting because of YOU. You don't want to hurt any body? Keep going like you are and you'll hurt EVERYBODY and they'll hate you. And you deserve it. You know you do. Because you're just a worthless piece of shit, a fat, stupid, pathetic piece of shit. You didn't even THINK of giving him a call to break up, rather than doing it over an IM, you piece of shit, you piece of fucking shit, you're the dirt -beneath- the shit, not even worth that much. Fucker. Deal with the fucking consequences you idiot, you fucking worthless pile of emptiness. You don't deserve any body. You don't deserve to be comforted -- after all, you brought this on yourself. He didn't initiate it, -you- did, so deal with the consequences of being worthless, of less than a fucking piece of shit.'
And that little, tiny voice is getting quieter 'no no no, you're not, you're better!' so quiet that I have to strain to hear it ...while the other is louder, getting louder all the time. 'YOU FUCKING PIECE OF WORTHLESS SHIT. YOU DON'T DESERVE ANYTHING, DO YOU? YEAH, YOU AGREE WITH ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT'
'no no, you're better!'
Piece of fucking shit. Stop your fucking crying you worthless whore, think anybody cares? YOU DID THIS. You don't deserve anything. You deserve to be alone.
No no, you deserve more, everyone deserves someone to hold them...
PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT. YOU DON'T DESERVE ANYONE, DESERVE TO BE ALONE, LONELY, HATED AND HATING AND HURTING. AND YOU FUCKING -KNOW IT-
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Ah...breakups.
Yes...yes. My boyfriend of 9 months ...or something like that ...is being broken up with. And I don't know how to do it!
I mean, I like him and all but...we've got next to nothing in common, and the distance and all ... So our conversations, when they happen, have been all 'hi, how was your day?' and he'd talk at me about his day, then, the reverse would happen for me. And...that's pretty much it. With the odd comment about dinner, or his dad or....y'know?
Not exactly the most riveting of things, understandably.
And we talk -at- each other. Not too. I've got nothing to say about what he says, and he's got nothing to say about what I say. We're strangers that know each other slightly well.
I don't want to hurt him, I don't have anyone waiting on the wings or anything, it's just....I'm bored. I don't know. Gah!
I knew that we didn't have much in common, but it wasn't a problem before! now...i don't know why, but it is. He adores me and all -- except at the moment I'm his least favourite person, understandably -- and because of that I don't want to hurt him...but...I don't want him as my boyfriend any more.
Friend is fine, like, a cuddle friend or ...y'know? The protective sort, but not a boyfriend. There's something wrong with me, he's wonderful really, sweet, kind, patient -- god knows he's patient -- and willing and a hard worker and all things that would make a wonderful provider for a family, the sort of loyal, dependable male that most girls are supposed to crave in a male, stability and everything and... I don't want that. I don't know why, but he's not the sort of male that I can see myself living with really. He's just....gah. I don't know. Looking at this I'm like....why am I breaking up? And my reply is that I don't know, but what I -do- know, is that well...it's stagnated. It's gotten flat. All the buzz and bubble popped out while I wasn't looking.
I just...
Don't know what to do.
I mean, I like him and all but...we've got next to nothing in common, and the distance and all ... So our conversations, when they happen, have been all 'hi, how was your day?' and he'd talk at me about his day, then, the reverse would happen for me. And...that's pretty much it. With the odd comment about dinner, or his dad or....y'know?
Not exactly the most riveting of things, understandably.
And we talk -at- each other. Not too. I've got nothing to say about what he says, and he's got nothing to say about what I say. We're strangers that know each other slightly well.
I don't want to hurt him, I don't have anyone waiting on the wings or anything, it's just....I'm bored. I don't know. Gah!
I knew that we didn't have much in common, but it wasn't a problem before! now...i don't know why, but it is. He adores me and all -- except at the moment I'm his least favourite person, understandably -- and because of that I don't want to hurt him...but...I don't want him as my boyfriend any more.
Friend is fine, like, a cuddle friend or ...y'know? The protective sort, but not a boyfriend. There's something wrong with me, he's wonderful really, sweet, kind, patient -- god knows he's patient -- and willing and a hard worker and all things that would make a wonderful provider for a family, the sort of loyal, dependable male that most girls are supposed to crave in a male, stability and everything and... I don't want that. I don't know why, but he's not the sort of male that I can see myself living with really. He's just....gah. I don't know. Looking at this I'm like....why am I breaking up? And my reply is that I don't know, but what I -do- know, is that well...it's stagnated. It's gotten flat. All the buzz and bubble popped out while I wasn't looking.
I just...
Don't know what to do.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Ah...the world is a wonderful place.
Children groomed for sex by polygamist sect: official
Wednesday Apr 9 09:17 AEST
Hundreds of young girls removed from a polygamist sect in Texas were being groomed to accept sex with adult men as soon as they reached puberty, officials said in court records released overnight.
Girls as young as 13 were "spiritually married" to men on the compound and forced to have sex with them "for the purpose of having children," according to an affidavit by an investigator with the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services.
A number of young girls who were pregnant or had recently given birth were discovered on the ranch after a desperate call for help was made by a 16-year-old girl who was pregnant again just eight months after giving birth to the child of her 50-year-old husband.
"There is a pervasive pattern and practice of indoctrinating and grooming minor female children to accept spiritual marriages to adult male members of the YFZ (Yearn For Zion) Ranch resulting in them being sexually abused," investigator Lynn McFadden told the court.
"Similarly, minor boys residing on the YFZ Ranch, after they become adults, are spiritually married to minor female children and engage in sexual relationships with them, resulting in them being sexual perpetrators," she said."This pattern and practice places all of the children located at the YFZ Ranch, both male and female, to risk of emotional, physical and/or sexual abuse."
More than 400 children were removed from the 1,700 acre (688 hectare) ranch owned by the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints during a dayslong raid which began Thursday.
They are being held in a historic fort in nearby San Angelo, Texas along with more than 130 women, most of them mothers, who left the compound.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Teens charged over YouTube cheerleader bashing
Wednesday Apr 9 07:04 AEST
Eight teenagers have been arrested and charged with beating another teen in an "animalistic attack" so they could make a videotape to post on YouTube.
Seven of the accused remained in juvenile detention on Tuesday, authorities said. A boy who was charged as an adult had been released on bail.
Victoria Lindsay was attacked on March 30 by six teenage girls when she arrived at a friend's home, authorities said.
One of the girls struck the 16-year-old cheerleader on the head several times and then slammed her head into a wall, knocking her unconscious, according to an arrest report.
 |
 |
 |
"It's absolutely an animalistic attack," Sheriff Grady Judd said Tuesday on NBC television's Today show. "They lured her into the home for express purpose of filming the attack and posting it on the internet."
Victoria's father, Patrick Lindsay, said the teens intended to post the video on the video-sharing website YouTube.
Christina Garcia, mother of one of the defendants, said her daughter had turned the tape over to police.
The sheriff's office said that after the attack, three of the teens forced the victim into a vehicle and drove her to another location, where she was told she would be given a worse beating if she contacted police.
All eight suspects were arrested April 2 and charged with battery and false imprisonment. The three teens who took Lindsay to the second location are also charged with felony kidnapping.
Lindsay was treated for a concussion, damage to her left eye and left ear, and numerous bruises, police said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Isn't the world a lovely, darling, -wonderful- place? Doesn't this just INSPIRE you to go out and ...love...your fellow man? Love them so much that they get a great big love hole in the back of their head from your shotgun of love? Yes, we all want to love our fellow man. Some of us though, *sigh* sadly, cannot do it. So the few that have the skills, and guns enough to endow our fellow man with proof of our love, must bear such a horrible, horrible burden.
Share the love people, go out and share the LOVE you have for your fellow man. Share until they cannot move from the awe of your love. From the blinding impact of reality, of the obvious in that 'oh god! I am so LOVED'.On a brighter note, I -love- multiple choice tests. (No sarcasm this time :P) They're like sooo.....not hard. You don't have to strain your brain coming up with adequate, coherent and cohesive answers, you just colour in a little dot. It's wonderful. You've got a 25% chance of getting it right, and when you're told that it's usually B or C that's a 50% chance of passing, 25% chance of failing, and a 25% chance of being a progedy and getting them all right! Whoo, lets aim for 100% lotto slikpick!
But MAN wednesdays are -killing- me. Get up at 6.30, get home at 11.30pm and, liek now for example, be asleep by MAYBE 1am. Ugh. Tired.
Lets vote to get rid of Hump day! It's not the start of the week, nor the end, it's the hump in the middle. Remove Hump day!
Sunday, 6 April 2008
I'm 18 now.
And it's delightful and boring at the same time. There's this ...thrill... as you walk around, knowing that there is literally nothing you can't do. You're a legal adult, you can go to pubs, nightclubs, adult stores, vote, drive, gamble ...the world is open to you! You can go conquer the world and no one can tell you not to!
Yet....yet at the same time you feel exactly the same. I'm exactly the same as I was two days ago, yet I can do so much -more-. Like drink legally.
Speaking of drinking, it was hell funny on my birthday (yesterday, April 5th). My mothers boyfriend, Shane, tried to get me drunk. He wanted to get me seriously maggoted, plastered, well marinated so that I was, quote, 'wurring my slurds' or, slurring my words. Well....that was the plan.
Such a pity that Shane fell asleep on the couch after four glasses non? Mind you, there was a shot between each glass, Baileys and milk mmm. I got mildly tipsy, but that's about it.
What'd I get? A 9carat gold bangle from my mum, a 24carat or something, necklace and pendant(a heart with a butterfly, the body of the butterfly one side of the heart) from my boyfriend, and a platinum (white gold) necklace from my dad, that has more diamonds in it than metal! It is -very- nice. Very flash. I love it! all my lovely shinies.
And NO, I didn't get a hang over. I drank lots of water, well, not lots, but some, and that combated the dehydration. I'm tiptop and raring to go, so much so that I'd been up for 15 minutes and had started on some homework I had to do. Law homework none the less, so not exactly easy.
Which brings me to now, or rather, later today. I discovered (was pointed to) a poor girl that would be the poster child for reasons to have an abortion...
http://i.somethingawful.com//sasbi/2006/08/elpintogrande/
04-julianabirth.jpg
(copy and paste, the link is fragmented)
It is real. Very real. Poor Juliana.
This is an extreme example of Treacher's Collins Syndrome. It's similar to having a cleft palate but instead of missing just the roof of your mouth, you're missing your entire mouth. And in the case of Juliana, jaw, orbit bones (thats what the eye sits in) and basically everything that's below the cranium.
You always get advocates as to why you -shouldn't- abort a child well...No offence to my religious friends, but consider what happens when you -don't-. Juliana, as sad as this sounds, should have been aborted. She's had to have surgery to breathe properly, and think of the stigmatism, the ostracizing, the hate, the bullying, the general mean nature of children, -and- adults that she'll get through out her life because of something she cannot change? The flinch and aversion of eyes that -everyone- will give her on first meeting? She has a completely cognitive, coherent mind, no brain damage, and there in lies the true tragedy. She will know, exactly, that she is different, she is less, she is considered to be 'deformed'. And there's not alot surgery can do to help her. there's nothing for bone to be grafted onto, nothing for plastic and metal to be supported from.
She'll have to spend her entire life like this, living as a 'freak of nature', because of lobbyists voting for the right to life. Ever considered that creatures that wouldn't live without our technological advances, shouldn't? I'm not going against abortion mind you, if the mother was a victim of a rape and a child is the result, abortion is fine. If its just cost, adoption. Likewise for the 'oops', adopt the child out if you don't want it.
Euthanasia. People that are too sick to live, have fatal illnesses and that the only way for them to exist longer is in a vegetative state with machines breathing for them, pumping and filtering their blood, feeding them, stretched out through pain an endless cycle of pain, should be allowed to die. The extremely old and infirm, where the body has given up but science wont concede the fight, people who are in a coma for years and years and years with 0% chance of waking up should have the plug pulled on them. You can't kill something that is nothing more than a body lying there performing bodily functions like breathing. It's not possible.
How is it humane to keep another in a state of agony, of perpetual existance where all they can do is listen to the beeping of machines and watch the shadows move over the ceiling?
Yet....yet at the same time you feel exactly the same. I'm exactly the same as I was two days ago, yet I can do so much -more-. Like drink legally.
Speaking of drinking, it was hell funny on my birthday (yesterday, April 5th). My mothers boyfriend, Shane, tried to get me drunk. He wanted to get me seriously maggoted, plastered, well marinated so that I was, quote, 'wurring my slurds' or, slurring my words. Well....that was the plan.
Such a pity that Shane fell asleep on the couch after four glasses non? Mind you, there was a shot between each glass, Baileys and milk mmm. I got mildly tipsy, but that's about it.
What'd I get? A 9carat gold bangle from my mum, a 24carat or something, necklace and pendant(a heart with a butterfly, the body of the butterfly one side of the heart) from my boyfriend, and a platinum (white gold) necklace from my dad, that has more diamonds in it than metal! It is -very- nice. Very flash. I love it! all my lovely shinies.
And NO, I didn't get a hang over. I drank lots of water, well, not lots, but some, and that combated the dehydration. I'm tiptop and raring to go, so much so that I'd been up for 15 minutes and had started on some homework I had to do. Law homework none the less, so not exactly easy.
Which brings me to now, or rather, later today. I discovered (was pointed to) a poor girl that would be the poster child for reasons to have an abortion...
http://i.somethingawful.com//sasbi/2006/08/elpintogrande/
04-julianabirth.jpg
(copy and paste, the link is fragmented)
It is real. Very real. Poor Juliana.
This is an extreme example of Treacher's Collins Syndrome. It's similar to having a cleft palate but instead of missing just the roof of your mouth, you're missing your entire mouth. And in the case of Juliana, jaw, orbit bones (thats what the eye sits in) and basically everything that's below the cranium.
You always get advocates as to why you -shouldn't- abort a child well...No offence to my religious friends, but consider what happens when you -don't-. Juliana, as sad as this sounds, should have been aborted. She's had to have surgery to breathe properly, and think of the stigmatism, the ostracizing, the hate, the bullying, the general mean nature of children, -and- adults that she'll get through out her life because of something she cannot change? The flinch and aversion of eyes that -everyone- will give her on first meeting? She has a completely cognitive, coherent mind, no brain damage, and there in lies the true tragedy. She will know, exactly, that she is different, she is less, she is considered to be 'deformed'. And there's not alot surgery can do to help her. there's nothing for bone to be grafted onto, nothing for plastic and metal to be supported from.
She'll have to spend her entire life like this, living as a 'freak of nature', because of lobbyists voting for the right to life. Ever considered that creatures that wouldn't live without our technological advances, shouldn't? I'm not going against abortion mind you, if the mother was a victim of a rape and a child is the result, abortion is fine. If its just cost, adoption. Likewise for the 'oops', adopt the child out if you don't want it.
Euthanasia. People that are too sick to live, have fatal illnesses and that the only way for them to exist longer is in a vegetative state with machines breathing for them, pumping and filtering their blood, feeding them, stretched out through pain an endless cycle of pain, should be allowed to die. The extremely old and infirm, where the body has given up but science wont concede the fight, people who are in a coma for years and years and years with 0% chance of waking up should have the plug pulled on them. You can't kill something that is nothing more than a body lying there performing bodily functions like breathing. It's not possible.
How is it humane to keep another in a state of agony, of perpetual existance where all they can do is listen to the beeping of machines and watch the shadows move over the ceiling?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)