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Jan. 14th, 2003 07:47 amToday's occasions of crankiness:
1) I can't get into my mrks.org blog this morning. I haven't changed any settings since I last updated it. I have no idea what's going on, and I can't get into the settings to look at them. Arrghh.
2) It is cold out. I'm a bit amazed at how suddenly and thoroughly my lifelong tolerance of and (at times) affection for winter has shattered. Because, I mean, good god, it's not really cold out. It's around zero, which is bog-normal mid-January weather. Cold is when it's twenty degrees colder than this (which it could easily get to at any point during the next four to six weeks). Really fucking cold is when it's thirty degrees colder than this, which it has certainly gotten to in my recent memory <repressing impulse to blather boringly about that thirty-two-below-zero morning back in '96, by cracky>. It's just that--somehow, after coping cheerfully with forty-six Minnesota winters (subtracting out the three years I spent in Calif.), I've abruptly lost my ability to deal. It's cold, and it hurts, and it's a major pain in the ass, and I am sick of it; and I need to get the hell out of here, whatever happens with the pending job application (about which I've still heard nothing ::stress stress::).
3. [Item deleted here having to do with massive anxiety about job application, and creeping conviction that I won't even get an interview, and general work-related gloom.]
3. The cold, which has moved to my head, is refusing to leave, but instead hangs around like one of those awful drunks at the tail-end of a party who seems incapable of taking a broad hint. "Yes! Ha ha! Well, it's been super, but I really would kind of like to breathe again now, if it's all the same to you, and ... yeah, right, but y'know, gotta get up early tomorrow, and, y'know, breathe, and ... yeah, I think you did tell me that story already, and ... no, really, I think the tequila's all gone, and ... ha ha! Right, it's been great, and here, let me get your coat, and ... nope, I think the beer's all gone too, and ..."
4. I was all industrious on Sunday and got some additions and revisions done to the story, and then Word had some sort of crack-addled nervous breakdown and I lost an entire afternoon's work. The only sensible response to such events is a deep breath, perhaps a brief sobbing fit, then a hearty "Heigh-ho!" and a rewrite of all the lost work before it departs one's brain forever. My own response has been an extended snit, which is neither emotionally gratifying nor productive. Fuck Word.
And. Um. OK, that's enough for now. Off to slap some good cheer into myself.
1) I can't get into my mrks.org blog this morning. I haven't changed any settings since I last updated it. I have no idea what's going on, and I can't get into the settings to look at them. Arrghh.
2) It is cold out. I'm a bit amazed at how suddenly and thoroughly my lifelong tolerance of and (at times) affection for winter has shattered. Because, I mean, good god, it's not really cold out. It's around zero, which is bog-normal mid-January weather. Cold is when it's twenty degrees colder than this (which it could easily get to at any point during the next four to six weeks). Really fucking cold is when it's thirty degrees colder than this, which it has certainly gotten to in my recent memory <repressing impulse to blather boringly about that thirty-two-below-zero morning back in '96, by cracky>. It's just that--somehow, after coping cheerfully with forty-six Minnesota winters (subtracting out the three years I spent in Calif.), I've abruptly lost my ability to deal. It's cold, and it hurts, and it's a major pain in the ass, and I am sick of it; and I need to get the hell out of here, whatever happens with the pending job application (about which I've still heard nothing ::stress stress::).
3. [Item deleted here having to do with massive anxiety about job application, and creeping conviction that I won't even get an interview, and general work-related gloom.]
3. The cold, which has moved to my head, is refusing to leave, but instead hangs around like one of those awful drunks at the tail-end of a party who seems incapable of taking a broad hint. "Yes! Ha ha! Well, it's been super, but I really would kind of like to breathe again now, if it's all the same to you, and ... yeah, right, but y'know, gotta get up early tomorrow, and, y'know, breathe, and ... yeah, I think you did tell me that story already, and ... no, really, I think the tequila's all gone, and ... ha ha! Right, it's been great, and here, let me get your coat, and ... nope, I think the beer's all gone too, and ..."
4. I was all industrious on Sunday and got some additions and revisions done to the story, and then Word had some sort of crack-addled nervous breakdown and I lost an entire afternoon's work. The only sensible response to such events is a deep breath, perhaps a brief sobbing fit, then a hearty "Heigh-ho!" and a rewrite of all the lost work before it departs one's brain forever. My own response has been an extended snit, which is neither emotionally gratifying nor productive. Fuck Word.
And. Um. OK, that's enough for now. Off to slap some good cheer into myself.