8 May 2001
Last year: It was the Customer Service Call from the Twilight Zone, I swear...
(Today I am On Display.)
I'm afraid I don't have a lot to say today. I'm afraid it's not going to be a very good day for me, but I don't really have much data on which to base that assumption. It's little things.
We're out of conditioner. I'll pick some more up when I go to the drugstore tomorrow, but in the meantime my hair is sortof float-y and annoying. It tends, when I sniffle with allergies, to wind up in my nose.
I forgot to water the garden again last night, and I'm beginning to worry that I'll have plenty of squash and cucumbers, but no tomatoes.
I tried my hand at drawing (hah!) my Meade Hall character, Kevil, yesterday, but instead of looking attractive and friendly, he looks like he's sneering evilly. Oh, and the one feature I felt pretty happy with was the one I was told looked most wrong.
Since I started up iTunes and put on my headphones this morning, it's played nothing but sad music. Vera, Light As The Breeze, Separate Lives...
Matt gave me one of his microwave meals for lunch. I think I know why, but that does't change the fact that it's a meal I very definitely don't want.
I almost walked out of the house without taking my medicine this morning.
I had two more e-mail messages from my manager this morning, both of them typically incomprehensible. (My manager has the worst grammar I've ever encountered in anyone over the age of fifteen. I know I'm frequently overly picky about spelling and grammar, but consider that the previous statement includes the semi-literate ramblings one encounters on the internet - though I'll give him credit for using capital letters and punctuation more or less correctly. The man needs a remedial English class.)
None of these are particularly important. None of these things are going to ruin my day or even one of my hours. But all together, they add up to a sort of general feeling of dread that leaves me looking around my office with vaguely ill anticipation. What next?
Another wasp committing suicide by diving into our lamp, driving us out for two hours because of the intolerable smell? Another memory leak that makes my job that much harder? Another impossible demand from the customer (who I fear has learned that we are entirely too agreeable when it comes to taking on additional challenges)?
Another heartburn attack to leave me writhing on the floor? Another friend hurt in an accident?
I can't concentrate. It's taken me over half an hour to write these few paragraphs. I keep picking at my fingernails and wondering when the next shoe will drop. I keep chewing on my lip and waiting for the news to come. I want to crawl into a hole and interact with no one for the rest of the day, but I know that's impossible.
I want whatever is happening to hurry up and happen, so I can be annoyed or angry or sad or depressed or frustrated. This lurking sense of dread is driving me mad.
Word of the Day:
enthrall - to hold or place in slavery; to hold spellbound, charm
Currently Reading:
- random comics
Current Projects:
- garden