News from Banksville Heights

Commentary on the Overpoliticized nature of these United States: Simon just said to me, "A lot of bugs are taking refuge in our house.  I grant them asylum."

October 20, 2004: Day 9 of 12

The first three days were okay.  I'd just had a weekend.  Thursday, I was off.  No big deal.  Friday went well.  It was a normal weekday, after all, and my routine hadn't been disturbed too much yet.  Saturday, I was furious.  I bitched for two hours and did very little else.  The office was exceptionally clean and organized when I was done, though, so I guess you could say it was productive. Sunday, I was bitter, but resigned.  Monday, I was exhausted.  Yesterday, I heard a tiny *snap* that I took to mean my soul had died.  Today, I was staring into space, a little bit dirty, and my clothes didn't fit right.  Right now, I'm feeling pretty good, but that's just because I'm almost at the end, and tomorrow's a half-day.  (Before you lose respect because I'm only working half-days, just think.  Would you rather have two half-days of work, or one day off?)  Then, finally, I will work a whole day on Friday, which I predict to be schizophrenic and dangerously unpredictable.  At the end of my long, long tour of duty, I already have a Valhalla prepared for myself, at PHI for a quick drink, and then Hemingway's for a pitcher.  But wait, folks, there's more! Saturday and Sunday, praise the Gods, I am off.  We're planning on going to the Bio reserve.  Monday through Thursday, I work, and Friday I'm off.  Then Saturday I work, and Sunday I'm off.  Then Monday I work, and then I have five days in a row off.  Is your head spinning?  Mine is.  Thank Jebus that my vacation starts on Election day (also: Simon's Birthday) and I have another full four days to process that shit.

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On another note, I was doing laundry the other night, in the most convenient large block of free time available, which happened to be midnight.  I was coming back from the creepy dank basement room full of chickenwire storage cases, and I heard this evil hissing whisper start to say something, so I half-dropped the laundry and yanked the doors open and ran home.  Even I knew I was totally stupid for getting freaked out, and I said so to Simon.  However, my body had decided to override me and shudder uncontrollably in a miserable heap whether I liked it or not.  After a few half-hearted soothing pats on the head, Simon admitted that he no longer really got too concerned when I screamed.  (ed. note -- no actual laundry was dropped, forgotten, or soiled in the production of this story. )

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One last sporadic anecdote to send you to sleep on. I get this message in my work inbox: If you can't see the picture, click the underlined text above. Think about it, won't you?                     -Dude Denise Works With So I can't see the picture, and I click on the link, and this is what I get:

and I start laughing, but it takes me a full sixty seconds to realize that I have absolutely no idea what he means.  And then I start laughing again, because I assume he doesn't either.   And when I asked, it turns out I was right.  It's just a squirrel, sitting on a chair, at a table, eating corn which is nailed into the table.  We're all pretty tired. True story.  Maybe this little rat's-bastard should be a Tasty Mascot.

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