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Friday, January 10, 2003

It is Crisis of Confidence Day here at la casa Kat; I am experiencing a bout of I-suckism that makes Badfic!RayK look like a paragon of self-esteem. I have heard nothing back about the job. (Rational Brain: "Well, these things take time, you know that, just relax." I-Suck Brain: "Oh, shut up. They laughed at my resume, they laughed loud and long, and then they tore it up into little tiny bits.") The story continues to loom in my mind as a monument to tripe. (Rational Brain: "You feel this way every time, and hey, L. thinks it's good!" I-Suck Brain: "I repeat, shut up. Plus, she's just being nice to me.") I am miles and miles behind on stuff at work. (Rational Brain: "You just have to go in and start chipping away at it; slow and steady, one thing at a time." I-Suck Brain: "What part of shut up are you not getting? Plus, any day now they're gonna twig to my massive incompetence and just fire my ass, and then I'll have to go work as a convenience store clerk in Lake Elmo and live in a trailer park.")

This is, actually, not a plea for reassurance, just a quick tour of the monkey house. See the monkeys! Laugh as they jump up and down and screech! Duck out of the way as they fling shit!

Posted @ 01:21 PM CST [Link]7 comments

Thursday, January 9, 2003

Well, I have hauled myself, hand over hand, out of the Valley of the Shadow of the Rhinovirus. (And that hand-over-hand is a bitch, let me tell you, when you have to stop and blow your nose every ten seconds.)

Note to self: Self, when you are sick enough that you have only two or three functioning brain cells, it is really not smart to do the I-will-go-into-work-anyway-like-the-martyr-I-am routine, even though--or especially when--the reason you are going in is because there are Very Vital Tasks to be done, because if those V.V.Tasks require more than two or three functioning brain cells--viz. and to wit, the systematic review of two hundred student academic records ("past term and current term and cumulative GPA all above 2.0, good standing; past term above 2.0 but either present term or cum below 2.0, probation; past and present and cum all below 2.0, suspension, unless there were summer courses, in which case if summer GPA above 2.0, probation; and also noncredit math will not count toward cum GPA for suspension purposes but will count toward term GPA for probation purposes")--if these tasks, as I say, require that you possess more functioning intellect than God gave the average celluloid ping-pong ball, then trying to do them when do you not in fact have such level of functioning intellect means you will make an unholy hash of things that will require the next two days to unsnarl. While blowing your nose every ten seconds. (And giggling dorkishly about "cum." Heh heh heh.)

Turning to other matters, one of many reasons I am grateful that elynross is in fandom is that I can usually just point to her analysis of some current flap and mumble, "Yeah, what she said." As, for example, with the whole feedback brouhaha. To her reflections I can only add that, on the grand cosmic scale of things, how people choose individually to handle feedback--either the sending of or the responding to it--ranks pretty low on the scale of things that perturb, outrage, or interest me. (I'm far more perturbed by the fact that so far I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to traduce Anna into writing me some long long lovely due South fiction. Blast and damnation.)

Off now to blow my nose, swill more cough syrup, and watch The Dark Age on fX, one of the very few Buffy episodes that, by gross mischance, I haven't yet seen. Giles! Giles's Evil Past! Yay!!!!

Posted @ 09:39 PM CST [Link]2 comments

Monday, January 6, 2003

My god, I feel awful. I have some sort of ultra-vicious chest cold settling in, with the usual concomitant feeling that someone has blasted a blowtorch down my trachea. Note to self: when coming down with the godawful chest crud, do not flump on the sofa and watch Dustin Hoffman in "Outbreak," because you shall be seized with the conviction that you are Patient Zero with the all-new airborne pnuemonic Ebola, and that your lungs are liquefying into sludge.

Also, the story is just inches from finished, which is always the stage, with every story, where I become convinced that it is the most banal, witless, malformed, incoherent piece of tripe ever to constitute an egregious affront to the English language and the human sensibility.

In addition to which, the couple upstairs have been engaged for the last few weeks in intermittent shrieking fights. This began, my hand to god, at fifteen minutes to midnight on Christmas Eve, when I was roused from my peaceful Christmassy slumbers to the sound of yelling, cursing, sobbing, and furniture being shoved violently about, and has persisted at intervals since. I have no idea what this is all about, and the good angel perched on my one shoulder would really very much prefer not to know, while the bad angel on the other shoulder believes that if one's neighbors are going to engage in screaming fights, the very least they can do is scream distinctly enough so one can follow the plotline.

I do rather wish I felt more like a human being this evening, a member in good standing of the species, accountable, dues paid up, on the right side of the velvet rope. Since I don't, going to bed might be an idea. Yes.

Posted @ 12:27 AM CST [Link]5 comments