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dragonlady7I Swear To Bob, if I come down with tonsilitis and have to negotiate the American health system sans health insurance again I will do someone some violence.
I just went and counted. I have come to work on 64 separate days. Which means I have been here long enough to join the damn union (60 days). Which means I can have the privelege of paying them $50 a quarter to be in their damn club and another $16 a week to buy their damn health insurance.
Which means I can have health insurance for the first time since 2003.
Which means that if this goddamn sore throat, which has awakened me five hours after I went to sleep, had better fucking not be anything serious. Because I haven't joined the union and I don't have health insurance and we all know what a fucking treat the Tonsilitis In New Jersey Incident was.
Am, as it is 5:15 am now and I am too sleepy to be coherent enough for anything else, looking for the journal entries wherein I discuss the Tonsilitis In New Jersey incident. It must be summer or autumn 2002, but I can't remember. I did, however, find Yay!: A Contemporary Urban Litany For Two, which Dave composed out of the contents of the e-mail we sent back and forth multiple times daily for like, three months. It was one of those endless interspersed-reply emails, and one section of it merely consisted of us saying, in different ways, Yay! to one another. I no longer have a copy of the e-mail, as my mail all died when my last Winbox died just before I bought the iMac, but I do have this, which Dave composed in boredom on the Newton on the bus back and forth to work. This might be the only extant copy. Thank heavens I post everything in my journal.
In other news, I was a total twit in 2002. Who'd think I'd do so much growing up between now and then? Man, not even I can read through all those entries; I skip half because they're waaaay too long.
Yeah, I think fanfic has improved my writing. (That and having actual multiple people read my journal instead of one or two.)
So yeah. I think the yay thing continued after the publication of Yay!, but I don't remember.
Yeah, Dave and I sort of got to know one another online and really, it's his wit that appeals to me so.
... Hm, Sept 2002 is amusing. I found the post where my mom found my journal... But she got bored and didn't read much of it, so it's all good I suppose. And in June 2002 I had this to say about boredom: "but now it's not just that i have no bigger fish to fry, it's that i quite simply have no other fish whatsoever to perform any kind of cooking task upon." Oh i'm such a funny girl.
The sore throat is all right, the tonsils not really swollen-- it's probably nothing, and will pass, hopefully by Friday so I can go to work and earn my $4 or whatever (Mmm, back into the Club. Saw Lucie, the regular club lady. I said, "It's really clean in there!" She ignored that and had another tirade about how they should have told her that she wouldn't be able to leave early on Friday. Similar to the tirade one of the Club ladies had to me about it on three separate occasions while i was in there. The sort of tirade where the person says "I know it isn't your fault but" and proceeds to go up one side of you and down the other, usually shrilly. "I know," is my invariable response, "I told them when they called me and asked me to work the other bar that they had better tell Lucie" but the person doing the tirade never hears me and keeps going, and it's really quite annoying). Where was I? I dunno.
If I were more coherent I'd try to work on the new plotbunny I'm gnawing. (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tehta pointed out that usually, it's the writer gnawed by the plotbunny. In a response that strikes me now (at 5:30 am) as being very witty, I said that for me it's the other way around: I have to gnaw the plotbunny until it's digestible, at which point I can swallow it and trust that eventually it'll make its way through the digestive system and emerge transformed in a new form entirely from my other end, as a story. I was quite proud of the metaphor, although in truth I must confess I've usually a higher opinion of my own writing than that. I am a stuck-up little twerp after all. :D) Anyway, this plotbunny has to do with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, so I spent a bit of time late last night on the Dep't of Veterans Affairs website and am left with the sad conclusion that, even discussed as academically as possible, PTSD sounds like a bad soap opera plot. Well... they gotta get their material somewhere.
I just went and counted. I have come to work on 64 separate days. Which means I have been here long enough to join the damn union (60 days). Which means I can have the privelege of paying them $50 a quarter to be in their damn club and another $16 a week to buy their damn health insurance.
Which means I can have health insurance for the first time since 2003.
Which means that if this goddamn sore throat, which has awakened me five hours after I went to sleep, had better fucking not be anything serious. Because I haven't joined the union and I don't have health insurance and we all know what a fucking treat the Tonsilitis In New Jersey Incident was.
Am, as it is 5:15 am now and I am too sleepy to be coherent enough for anything else, looking for the journal entries wherein I discuss the Tonsilitis In New Jersey incident. It must be summer or autumn 2002, but I can't remember. I did, however, find Yay!: A Contemporary Urban Litany For Two, which Dave composed out of the contents of the e-mail we sent back and forth multiple times daily for like, three months. It was one of those endless interspersed-reply emails, and one section of it merely consisted of us saying, in different ways, Yay! to one another. I no longer have a copy of the e-mail, as my mail all died when my last Winbox died just before I bought the iMac, but I do have this, which Dave composed in boredom on the Newton on the bus back and forth to work. This might be the only extant copy. Thank heavens I post everything in my journal.
In other news, I was a total twit in 2002. Who'd think I'd do so much growing up between now and then? Man, not even I can read through all those entries; I skip half because they're waaaay too long.
Yeah, I think fanfic has improved my writing. (That and having actual multiple people read my journal instead of one or two.)
So yeah. I think the yay thing continued after the publication of Yay!, but I don't remember.
Yeah, Dave and I sort of got to know one another online and really, it's his wit that appeals to me so.
... Hm, Sept 2002 is amusing. I found the post where my mom found my journal... But she got bored and didn't read much of it, so it's all good I suppose. And in June 2002 I had this to say about boredom: "but now it's not just that i have no bigger fish to fry, it's that i quite simply have no other fish whatsoever to perform any kind of cooking task upon." Oh i'm such a funny girl.
The sore throat is all right, the tonsils not really swollen-- it's probably nothing, and will pass, hopefully by Friday so I can go to work and earn my $4 or whatever (Mmm, back into the Club. Saw Lucie, the regular club lady. I said, "It's really clean in there!" She ignored that and had another tirade about how they should have told her that she wouldn't be able to leave early on Friday. Similar to the tirade one of the Club ladies had to me about it on three separate occasions while i was in there. The sort of tirade where the person says "I know it isn't your fault but" and proceeds to go up one side of you and down the other, usually shrilly. "I know," is my invariable response, "I told them when they called me and asked me to work the other bar that they had better tell Lucie" but the person doing the tirade never hears me and keeps going, and it's really quite annoying). Where was I? I dunno.
If I were more coherent I'd try to work on the new plotbunny I'm gnawing. (
tehta pointed out that usually, it's the writer gnawed by the plotbunny. In a response that strikes me now (at 5:30 am) as being very witty, I said that for me it's the other way around: I have to gnaw the plotbunny until it's digestible, at which point I can swallow it and trust that eventually it'll make its way through the digestive system and emerge transformed in a new form entirely from my other end, as a story. I was quite proud of the metaphor, although in truth I must confess I've usually a higher opinion of my own writing than that. I am a stuck-up little twerp after all. :D) Anyway, this plotbunny has to do with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, so I spent a bit of time late last night on the Dep't of Veterans Affairs website and am left with the sad conclusion that, even discussed as academically as possible, PTSD sounds like a bad soap opera plot. Well... they gotta get their material somewhere.
