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please, mr. postman|
Friday, January 19, 2001 @ 03:33 p.m.
que pasa con los bloggies? i am getting referrals from there, but it is a cosmic perplexion.
angie: you forgot beauty queen! disqualified!
ironically, just as I was congratulating myelf for the whole world to read on the world wide web this morning )see earlier post), i realized it was actually 9.54, seven minutes before my bus tends to arrive. I was still unfed, in my pyjamas, unbreakfasted and just basically content in my squalor. "Shit," I exclaimed, for the benefit of the unseen audience I am convinced is watching my bus-missing hijinks on cable television. "Am I mental?" I added, for the Wayne's World fans in said audience. Then, I grabbed all my ownables and luggables, got dressed, grabbed some money for lunch, made sure I had nothing between my teeth, let my dog out, popped some tic tacs, and ran out the door.
The bus was late, of course. And I still haven't eaten anything today.
My ass-kicking worked. Today was terrific. Ferdinand de Saussure went well. Becky and I had a very gratifying conversation about how Paul Newman is "sex solidified". Food was just throwing me off. This whole fasting/aceticism thing really works for me. I guess. I have a private rant I won't want to post here for the world to read, but if you want to hear it, phone me (4870522). The first person to call is going to get an earful.
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three things that i am jealous of:
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The future is (apparently) not as friendly as I thought
I have been trying for about an hour to set up call display on my phone, but apparently this can't be done because "all our representatives are assisting customers. to ensure that your call is answered as quickly as possible, please stay on the line." They are "experiencing heavy call traffic." At 11 oclock on a Thursday night? Why not just say, "the one guy who is working is gone on a pissbreak"? I am really, REALLY annoyed. I look at it thusly: like a lot of other people, I work in the world of customer service, basically. We provide something-- cigarettes and beanie babies-- that people need. Telus provides something people need, too: phones. When it comes to my work I think personal responsibility is important-- not because my work is fulfilling or interesting or high-paying or even at all worthwhile, but because the world is BUILT on people like me, and if we don't do things well, nothing will function. All of us count on being able to get the products and service we need so we can work on other areas of our lives, like discovering a cure for cancer and makng mixtapes. This ability to delegate menial work and then complete it as efficiently as possible is what distinguishes human beings from other animals (I mean, if you really think about it.) If a Telus representative ever picks up the phone (damn you Kenny G hold music!) I am going to explain this to them.
But until then I'm just waiting for a customer service representative to become available.
You know, if we had cottage industries instead of this damn post-indistrial megacorporation monolith I wouldn't have this problem. I would just go down to PhoneMakere Will's cottage and knock on his door and wake him up at 11.21 pm and say, "Will, get thee to work on my call answer," and Will would hate me, but dammit, I would know if the fucking National Post was calling me again trying to sell me a subscription for $11. I hate this day. I am going to kick this day's ass by going to bed now. (I love ass-kickings that involve me going to bed.)
Anyway, none of this reflects badly on Jeff's dad, who is (I'm sure) a very nice man.
Although not as nice as Will.
* * *
desperate men do desperate deeds
i think this has been a very "off" week, but i can't define the exact reason. i wonder if it feels this way to everyone?
a guy came into my store tonight at a couple minutes to nine and spent about five minutes telling me about his pet snake-- it once ate a mouse, and squished its head so its guts came out its ass-- why do people tell me these things? are we all so desperate for intimacy that someone like me-- sort of part of the retail landscape-- becomes the listening ear for one thing after another? not that i really mind-- i would rather be talked at about something strange than ignored-- but really: GICs and mutual funds, this whole snake business, growing up on farms, two fathers dying of cancer (in one week!). What is it with me? Am I too friendly? You guys know me, is there something inherent in my nature that says, "please tell me the inane details of your life"?
I want this answering machine message:
Hi. Welcome to the complicated Jocelyn Message Centre. For Canada Post delivery standards and ROSS software problems, press 1. For information on how to order the book 'Japanese for Travellers,' press 2. For spiritual counselling, press 3. To leave a message for Tony Blair or Jocelyn, please stay on the line.
Well, anyway, back to the strange week. Cam pointed out that unless I can figure out what's going wrong, I won't be able to prevent it happening again next week (a scary thought), but there's no pinpointing this. It's just everyone: Brenda, one of my favourite customers, agreed with me. It's just one of those weeks. Meghan's hedgehog. Kristan's boyfriend announcing to her that he's going to hop on a plane to Texas one of these days, without even saying goodbye. A variety of physical ailments. It's partly food, too. We don't have any at my house, and it's making me sad. Does anyone NOT feel it? Has this week been outstandingly good for anyone?
Two things from work:
note written to myself:
* * *
the one who eats bugs and gets the funny syphilis
it frustrates me that i apply about four coats of moisturizer to my hands after my shower, and finally get my skin feeling normal again, and then my dad asks me to do the dishes. doesn't in fact ask: phrases it, "jocelyn, you're gonna do the dishes right?" accompanied by a sad smile meant to convey the incredible weight of work on his own shoulders, as if i myself do nothing at all with my time. i know it's ridiculous, but i am really, really annoyed right now.
"she's gone. i am abused, and my relief
"Sigmund Frued was a novelist with a scientific background. He just didn't know he was a novelist. All those damn psychiatrists who came after him, they didn't know he was a novelist either." -John Irving
Destinos (the Spanish TV show I watch for Spanish 100) is driving me crazy. I want Raquel and Arturo to fuck, already. I mean, what's stopping them? They obviously love each other. Arturo has a sweet house. HELLO! Adults can have sex whenever they want. I'm so sexually frustrated, on their behalf of course. A part of me knows they will never get it on-- this is a Spanish telecourse designed for Spanish 100 students, after all-- but a part of me just keeps hoping. I think that was what Emily Dickenson was talking about with the whole "bird without feathers that perches in the soul" thing.
* * *
"We should take care not to make the intellect our god; it has, of course, powerful muscles, but no personality." -Albert Einstein
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I'm glad to take this opportunity to introduce our cooperation. We are a top manufacturer and exporter of textile with an 80-year history in China. Advanced equipment and more than 1,000 R&D staff members enable us to supply high quality blankets
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when you gonna make up your mind/when you gonna love you as much as I do
at work tonight: i sold 150 disposable incontinence liners; a regular customer turned in a birthday card she'd found that someone else had written in and then stuck back on the shelf; i sale-priced some javex. i survived all this intact. but when a laughing acne-d boy about my own age asked for the location of the toilet paper (haha!), i almost broke down in tears, suddenly struck by how utterly desperate and pathetic my job is. i sell cold medication, cigarettes, nicorettes, and last-minute wrapping paper to the unlocated and faceless; and, because i don't care either way, i give free matches to all the crazy, unkempt, dislocated people who ask (no doubt i am responsible for arson attacks in hostels and shelters across the city). i answer questions about the weather and what i'm taking in university dear and where the sleeping pills are. i dress as ridiculously and edgily as possible within (and sometimes without) the minimal dress code, because i like making fragile elderly customers nervous. i intentionally style my hair in ridiculous ways. when no one is looking i skulk the aisles with a secret agent spyscope, scouting out tampon-shoplifters and mutterring women in tattered fur coats. i train all the new people who come to the front, but they all seem to leave within a few months, while i remain. every two weeks i receive a paycheque for doing this, and i buy designer jeans and transluscent blue phones, and neither seems to have anything to do with the other. i think my job is making me crazy.
today kind of sucked. i took my dog for a walk. my english prof failed to show up, so once again god and luck dropped a half hour into my lap and i used it well (finishing my history reading). no one complimented me on my pez shirt. no one phoned me on my new phone, except someone who hung up right after i said hello. midway through constructing a tuna salad sandwich we ran out of mayonnaise. the book-of-the-month is courting me with offers of 5 hardcover bestsellers for 99 cents. my dad and i made a run to safeway for cookies at 10.15, and came home with fudgeeos and coconut macaroons, of which i ate three. i have to admit that at the moment the idea of an apartment away from here is tempting, but in fact what i am bored with is january, drugstore, dirty snow, being broke, and the inside of my head; and none of these things is going to get better with a change of surroundings. garrison keillor once wrote that february is the month that lets people who don't drink know what a hangover feels like; today i feel like i have a hangover, except i don't.
it smells strange in here, peachy and smoky, from the candle my sister gave me for christmas; actually, it smells a little like stale pot. i am burning a candle in my room, and it makes mr. potatohead cast diabolical shadows on my wall.
i don't miss junk food
no one's bare, sexy feet in particular: it was just, one of those things, an image generated by my subconscious; or, something we are talking about in linguistics: an intension.
* * *
"well, it's not like you lost anything."
"I have never dropped any trash anywhere--not on purpose--out of respect for others and also because I was afraid that if I did Thoreau would appear and pick up my jujube wrapper and put it in his pocket and say, his large, sad eyes meeting mine, 'Why should we be in such despesrate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises?' I don't know the answer to that one, either." -Garrison Keillor, MILLS
* * *
unaided by man or science
inspired by my buddy alex, i would like to share with you a short, bad teenage poem i wrote last night in chris's car on the way home from chimprov (note: lines composed at one-thirty in the morning). thus:
840 days in January
i think i invented a new kind of sonnet!
the future is friendly!
actually, the future is more busy than friendly necessarily, but busy compensates for a lot of things. you go to bed tired, you notice the pain a lot less.
* * *
on tshirts, sex cries, and what i did on my summer vacation
i swear if i hear one more of these singing boys talking about "i don't know why i've been so blessed to love someone like you," or "i want to be with you forever," or whatever, i am going to go unabomber or something. This is past uncoolness.
"So, I have a cell phone but nobody but my daughter knows the number, sometimes I wonder, "Why doesn't anyone call me on my cell phone?" But then I have to remind myself that no one has my number."
"I see people walking up the streets in New York talking to themselves, and I go, "Who is that crazy person behind me?" But they have these little wires hanging out of their ears that are cell phones, but it sounds like psychopathia. They should put these people together to walk in pairs so that it doesn’t scare the rest of us." -Tim Robbins, on technology (from a chickclick interview)
Fact: Adbusters (www.adbusters.org) doesn't have tshirts. this irks me because i am lusting after a "Hitler Wears Khakis" TShirt. However, Sanctuary, you know, the witch-supply store on Whyte Ave., sells Emily merchandise (thank you Meghan!) so my TShirt karma will soon be rebalanced. Also, does anyone know where I could get a picked last in gym class TShirt? I saw a guy with one in california, and i want one so much i'm going to cry.
Novelty linko du jour: the Victorian Sex Cry Generator. Pilfered link from kerplink pitas.
* * *
no notes on my hands today
prozzac had a lot of foresight, buying the domain name www.nevergetoveryou.com before releasing their CD. or maybe i'm the only one who admires how smart that was.
the truth is... well, i'm just not ready for the truth yet, and that's the truth.
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