scheduling

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so the schedule was a bit wonky, so i was in buffalo for 2 weeks in a row– in the summers it winds up always being every other week, which is the worst possible way this could work and yet that’s just how it is– and anyway i thought it would be nice because that way i get a weekend instead of spending it driving, and it turned out i didn’t. because my supervisor at work went on vacation, cleverly taking five days over a weekend so he could be away for longer. but that meant i had to go in saturday; he usually does about ten minutes of work on a saturday just to meet amazon’s deadlines, but he can 1) do them remotely and 2) is salaried. if I got the remote shit configured to do it at home, that’d be me working unpaid, so no. My commute is short, so I went in, intending to do so for half an hour but then it was too much work to do in half an hour so I stretched it carefully to an hour. (I haven’t felt the same about this place since I realized they round your hours down to the nearest half when paying you. of course they round down. Ugh.)

anyway. i also wound up having to work several 9-hour days in a row. so thursday morning i sat and tallied up all my hours, and then did the math they do before they pay me– round down to the nearest half-hour, subtract half an hour per eight hours worked for the unpaid lunch break i don’t ever take, etc.– and was left with the number of hours I could work over the next two days to avoid going over 80 for the pay period. I had been counting on this since that resentful Saturday, anticipating that I’d Just Have To take a half day or something on Friday to make up for it, which would be Just Such A Shame. (I was looking forward to it immensely.)

I got fifteen as my result, which didn’t include the two unpaid half hours. So… eight hours each day. Oh.

Well, as it happened, rushed off my feet all day Friday, I redid the math on my lunch break and realized I’d fucked up and in fact should have only worked five hours Friday after all. But it was too late, and in fact I wound up working a bit over eight because I had too much shit to get done. And probably all along I had too much shit to get done to take the time off.

But I didn’t have permission for overtime, and– well, we’ll see. I might get yelled at. Possibly they’ll just find an “innocent” way to forget to pay me for it. We’ll see.

But I’m real tired and I just want to lie here for a little while. Phooey. (Your picture was not posted)

murder privileges

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We were driving out in the city the other night, on a road that had a bike lane, and as we came up on an intersection a wobbly bicyclist rounded the corner and swerved out of his lane slightly into ours. He corrected, and it was never a real danger, but Dude, who was driving, complained, to me, “Bike man, stay in your lane.”

“Because if we hit you,” I said, “you die, and then we go to jail for murder.”

“Jail for*ever*,” Dude complained, “and like, I mean–”

“If I’m gonna go to jail for murder,” I said, agreeing with what I knew he was goign to say, “I want it to be for someone I damn well meant to murder.”

“You’re not even on my list, buddy,” Dude said to the now long-behind-us bicyclist.

“You can’t cut the line like that,” I said. “I’m going down it’s going to be for someone who really deserved it.”

“Getting murdered by me is a rare privilege,” Dude filled in.

“IT IS AN HONOR TO DIE BY MY BLADE,” I bellowed, as we paused at a stop sign. A woman at the crosswalk looked briefly alarmed, and then we drove on. (Your picture was not posted)

my-name-is-vako:-Come On, Iorveth . I know your ideology...

didn't mean to, WHY

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my-name-is-vako https://my-name-is-vako.tumblr.com/post/159706843898/come-on-iorveth-i-know-your-ideology-allows :

-Come On, Iorveth https://vk.com/feed?section=search&q=%23iorveth . I know your ideology allows you to be quiet for a few minutes.

lick (Your picture was not posted)

snippet

witcher, dadfeels

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I have a lot of feelings about damaged old soldiers, ok. idk if/where i’m using this but i had a rotten fucking week so i’m writing whatever i want today.

“Here’s one more thing about Foltest: In his entire life, no one ever really said no to him. He didn’t have people in his life that he felt he could trust to give him true answers.”

“You tell the truth,” Anaïs said, a little surprised at her own insight.

Roche blinked at her. “I do,” he said. “I told him the truth too. But I was– he only wanted me obedient. It was not my place to tell him things unless he wanted to hear them.”

“You loved him,” she said, because she’d heard someone say that. She couldn’t remember who. Vernon Roche loved Foltest more than sense or reason, they’d said, and she’d remembered the phrase, because she always remembered things about her father, who she had barely known.

Roche looked down at his hands. “I did,” he said.

“Did he love you?” she asked.

He glanced up at her, at that, and she thought she’d surprised him. “That I don’t know,” he said. “The thing is, Anaïs, he might have loved me like he loved his dogs. But I don’t know if he even thought of me as a person. And that’s– something you can’t do. You have to think of people as people. Even if they’re less important than you are, they’re still people. Even the least important person is still a person. And I don’t know if he understood that.”

“Because nobody ever said no to him,” Anaïs filled in.

Roche breathed in sharply through his nose, and nodded, looking out at the garden.

“Will you promise,” she asked, suddenly seized with a feeling that this was important, “to always say no to me? If I need it?”

His eyes went wide and he turned his head to look at her, mouth slightly open. After a long, tense moment, he took a breath, let it out halfway, and said, “Yes.”

coda, tw alcohol:

“I need a drink,” Roche said.

Louisa eyed him sidelong. He’d pushed into the study rather abruptly, looking harried, and was rummaging through the books on the shelf to find the decanters behind them. “Did Anaïs behave?” she asked.

“Like an angel,” he said. He selected one of the decanters and pulled the stopper out, pouring into one of the cups on the sideboard.

“I assume you’re kidding,” she said. “What did my darling child do now?”

“Asked me what her father was like,” Roche said, and took a long sip from the glass. He’d poured himself a generous helping of whatever was in there– some kind of whiskey, by the smell– and quite a lot of it vanished in that first draught.

“How did you answer her?” Louisa asked.

“Honestly,” Roche said, and finished the glass. (Your picture was not posted)