no glasses

i am awake but in denial so i haven't put my glasses on yet. This means I have my face mashed up agaist the screen because, sans corrective lenses, I have a focal distance of about 5 inches. Given that this is a Luxo Jr. iMac, I also have the screen pulled over as far as it will go, and mushed down against the bedframe for optimal peerage. Just you try to do that with one of those newfangled all-in-one G5 imacs. You can't. So there. Look at that, I'm even doing HTML without glasses. Pfeh, I am brilliance itself.

So, Dave's thinking of going to a temp agency today and getting a job until early March. So he'll have some money too. Because TAP etc. won't give him any financial aid, because in 2003 he made $55,000. Never mind that in 2004 he made like $4k. The financial aid forms don't care what he did in 2004. So... He'll be paying full-price, which means we need to get our earn on so he can finish school. (Bastards.)

What all this means, my friends, is that he's going to shave the Unemployment Beard.
This makes me sad.
I don't particularly care for the Unemployment part of it, but OH THE FUZZINESS. It's to the point now where it's not spiky anymore, almost. Another week and it would be a real, honest-to-god, Hairy Man beard, and that would thrill my little heart... But it is not to be.
Instead, we will be, like, paying bills and stuff.
Smooth-cheekédly.

an actual conversation excerpt

me: "What if I got all skinny from having two jobs where I run around all day, and wound up being really hot?"
him: "I don't like hot chicks. They're all, 'pay attention to me,' and I'm all, 'but you're vapid.'"
me: "But what if I were a hot chick?"
him: "No way, man, hot chicks are dumb."
me, resigned. "So if I got way hot I'd lose my conversational ability?"
him: "It just wouldn't be the same."
me, playing the What A Chick Is Supposed To Say card (for me, a last-ditch resort): "So... in other words... I'm totally not hot."
him, realizing what card I've just played: "I know there isn't an answer to that."
me: "Come on."
him, singing a quote from a Strong Bad Email: "But she's only kinda hot so she won't mess around with other guys!"
me, baffled: "Huh?"


But I kinda know what he's saying. Dude, I hate hot chicks too.

So we went out last night and returned all our deposit bottles so we could buy ice cream and make milkshakes at 11 last night. Because I can't risk becoming a hot chick and losing my boyfriend. What would I do with myself then?


Ahhh... life is, above all else, totally surreal.

And now, for your reading pleasure, I present to you my favorite recent Penny Arcade strip:

On Discomfort (making fun of video games, of course.)

Do you hear what I'm telling you? It will be an ordeal. Canaries will go in first. Accidents will happen, and men will die.

mrfl. rant, rant, rant, rant.

it is pouring rain when i wish it would snow.
it is cold and icky.
the people who were perfectly happy to give other people jobs for three months won't do so for dave. 'what, you'll want to quit to go back to school?' 'well, yes. see, it's like a summer job, only over the winter holidays instead.' 'oh, we can't do that.' 'but, but you do it all the time in the summer!' 'yes, well, that's different.'

I am afraid to leave the room because of the Unhappiness that is dave. I would bake him cookies, as per the helpful suggestions of several people thusfar (over the course of the rather rough past week), but 1) that wouldn't help the fact that he has no money, and 2) You know, he doesn't really like cookies. Oh, and 3) I have to go to work soon.


As for me, I am getting ready for what I hope will be my first solo shift at Local Bar. One of the waitresses trained me last Tuesday, and has volunteered to train me again tonight, but i'd really rather she didn't because 1) at this point, if one more person tells me what to do I'll freak out, and 2) dammit, I cannot face another night of putting my hard-earned tips in someone else's jar. I can't. I fucking need money. Stop it. This is ridiculous. You standing there making sure I don't fuck up is not helping me, because most of the times you say "you're fucking up" I'm just doing something a different trainer told me to do, and am not actually fucking up. There's a difference. So stop it. Back off and let me work, right? This isn't rocket science. It's bartending. In a slow bar on a cold rainy wretched night that promises to be slow anyway.

Sigh.

Good mood? You know... No.

And I miss writing fanfiction, because original stuff? I can post it two or three different places and wait a week or two or, maybe, three, and nobody gives a shit. Nobody says a thing. I still haven't received one comment on the novel beyond an IM message from Ann asking if I was going to keep updating. (Unless you count various commenters who were impressed by my wordcount. While I appreciated that I could impress them, the wordcount isn't honestly that important.) I wrote a whole fucking novel and nobody cares. Great! I've resumed work, for fun, on the novel just previous and nobody cares about that either. I miss the days when I'd get comments, even vapid and stupid and pointless cheerleading comments, simply because I'd written something with Éomer in it and he was cute for like, a second. You know, just getting a "OMG squee I totally love it when you write stuff" used to totally make my day, if it was on a story I cared about. Because then I knew someone was reading it. This novel? Two people have told me they were reading it, but neither of them has said a goddamn word, so I don't know. Does it suck? Is it good? Did my revisions make the protagonist sympathetic? I don't fucking know. Why don't I update it more? Gee, I don't know. Because nobody gives a shit and I'm too tired and burnt-out now to keep being the only one who cares? Hey, good answer.

Yeah. Bad mood much? Hi wretchedness. It's awesome, isn't it?
I have a bunch of bills ready to go and when i send them, I will have $9 to my name, and $700 in credit card debt, and if I don't make anything in tips then I can't get gas or food. Hell, I won't even be able to buy food during my shift at the 50% discount.

Hoo-fucking-ray.
Rant, rant, rant, bitch bitch bitch, moan moan moan. I'm not even funny, I know, I'm just whiny and stupid, and my awareness of that isn't helping matters either. And Dave's convinced I'm telling the Internet how awful he is, when for once I'm not....

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms. For all the good it will do anyone. BLEAH!