basal wrathbone

In what has already been a year of things that made me laugh, this is the absolute tops, a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet:
Everyone here made the right decision, clearly.

On to TEEEAAAARS AND CRRRIIIEEEES ABOUT SOBSOBS
I think I might just stay the way I am, forever.  I don’t much care for the thought, but I don’t have a lot of options.

Really, I have plenty of options.  I just don’t know what to do, and I probably never will.

I want so much, but the ultimate goal is so little.  Why bother with all the effort, when all I really want to do is survive?
I want whatever, I need one thing.   I’m too afraid to try, just afraid that I won’t do as well as I always hoped I would.  So I don’t try.   That has been the overarching theme of my life, for as long as I’ve been cognizant.  I guess I figure, maybe someday, someone will inspire me to become what I want to be, someone will encourage me to try, and to never mind missed perfection.   I’m just not the sort of person to compromise on what I think could be, or what I could accomplish.  The idea that I may fail at something I see as possible/attainable absolutely terrifies me, and paralyzes me.  So I try nothing, nothing I have any confidence in.  How stupid to only be willing to try things which you feel you’ll perform poorly in!  Any sort of ’skill’ I feel that I have, I have hidden all away in shame and fear–that it might not be as perfect as it has to be.

Then I idle, waiting, thinking someday someone will have the right series of words, the right stimulus, and they’ll be able to make me do it.   It being whatever it is that I am meant to do.  For a person who believes in nothing, I do certainly put a lot of stock in pre-destination–which is about the weakest aspect of mystic thought, right?  It is also the only part that has any bit of allure.  A completely directionless being, well, that is more or less what I am–and I don’t much care for it.  I need to have something, and I guess what I have, is the idea that someday I will do whatever it is I am meant to do.  Maybe it will just dawn on me, sometime soon, maybe never.  Maybe I’ll see something, and I’ll know.  Maybe I’ll listen, and I’ll understand completely.

If not, I could very well be working in mass-market retailers all of my life, having some sort of brood of children with some vaguely attractive nice guy with whom I share little but love.  Then matching sweatpants, giving up.  If I manage not to be divorced towards the end of my life; last few years, he never listens, but that is alright, I’ve never got anything to say.  We die, the children are sad, the grandchildren search their memories of horehound candy and old leather purses: ‘what was grandma like, anyway?  Oh, she sounds pretty okay, I suppose.’      I don’t really want that, but I am making no real steps to…not do that.  I need to believe I will be more, that some unseen Adam Smith is guiding me as well, and someday I will achieve …something.

If not, what have I done?  I look around at all the people who shop: day in, day out at this store, and I feel terrible.  Mostly because I see how frail we are, the mortality all around.  I see people, and I see my dad, my mom, anyone I love, myself, and I know we’re all nearing the end.  Any moment could come, and destroy every little bit.  Every word you ever said, every thing you ever did, every gene, every little, imperceptible bit of ‘you’, and it will all be gone from the consciousness soon enough.  Shredded beyond recognition, and everything just continues on as machinated, by nature, by aNcIeNt SeCxReT g0dZ, whatever.

I want to live forever.

Beyond that, they worked to accomplish things, they’re happy in their lives, they aren’t constantly wracked inward, wondering about themselves, and why they can’t just DO something, or NOT do something and just LET GO.  They do have so much more to live for, and I have the audacity to consider myself superior to some of them, based on their opinions or thoughts, or whatever…At least they have direction, and purpose.  At least they have love, and friends, and fun.  At least they have children, and futures, and pasts, and memories, and experiences, and they know what to say and what to do in their own lives.   They’re defined, quite human, they have so much more than I.

They don’t wait around forever for some muse, some hand, some figure to tell them what to do, to make up for what their own constitution lacks, to make them one whole person.  They have so much, and all I have is whatever all this is: what good has that done me, all this time?

Maybe I’ve been wrong all this time, maybe it is better to just let yourself ‘be’.  I just don’t know how easy it could be to give up the dream of inspiration, somewhere.  Maybe I am no more than what readily, visibly am.  Just vacuous words in the ether, some body with organs and headmeats, who won’t amount to anything for any particular reason.  The idea hurts, but it is something everyone else came to terms with as a child, right?  It isn’t that I think I’m special, or that I deserve something more than survival…I guess I just want to be the “”"”"”"best me”"”"”" there is, and I don’t feel that I am, and I have no idea how, or by what measure, I will be.  I can be more, just a little more, than what I am–but I just won’t do it, and if I do, how will I know?

It doesn’t matter anyway, this is just a lot of stupid words.  It makes me sick, in a totally different way, to see myself so weak.  Why am I just typing all this out–to what benefit?  None, of course, only detriment is possible from keeping an “”"”"online journal”"”"”" full of heartfelt wahwahs.

I guess I need to communicate my “feelings” to something or someone, even if it is just more nonspecific chatter in the din.

luod borud

bored~~
i’m just waiting until virtual reality theme parks i guess:
http://www.viktorviktoriashop.com/theshop/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=198&products_id=1236

http://irregularchoice.co.uk/images/index.php?album=collections%2Fss09%2Fladies

http://www.flickr.com/photos/32470324@N08/3448286393/

http://boxerfanatic700.livejournal.com/4946.html

and a million people bother me in a million insubstantial ways

sherman is another okay name for a kid, maybe a middle name.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JYnCsCuGMsY

if i ever had a kid, he’d most certainly, and I’m sure I’ve said this a million times, they won’t be allowed anywhere near a camera until they are officially cool.

kids are pretty cool i think , just tol (thinkin out loud)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lALc5KSz8uQ
awww man look at thiiiis look at thiiiiis—
what sort of weird draconian school insists children opens their milks?
YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY PUDDING
also that kid has no idea what mr belvedere is , and I hope he never does.

you know the guy at work who was moderately cute that i may have mentioned in this blog is pretty much totally alright , he’s got the qt half moon eyelid thing.  feh , but i’ll never say anything because i am an absolute chicken and i just don’t know if i’d want to bother with some ‘get to know you’ relationship thing–i’d feel obligated to always look super put-together at work, anyway, which as of right now I can just do whatever and schlomo about in oversized clown clothes and mascara.  we do smile at each other though. :_____)  what does it matter, i’m sure he’d just end up being a Dude who likes Songs and Drinking, and would think I was weird–not too weird to have sex with, but just weird enough to not want to have a future with.  i’m too picky, probably.  that is how people end up spinsters.   rather that than a sad, trapped person who gets stuck with kids who are just like some guy who she only marginally liked.  boring, oafish children born from a boorboarorc.  that is just the way i’ve always been, it’s got to be perfect (~*~*~*~*~*~*waoh , itsmagic whenim withyou~*~*~*~**~) or i don’t want it at all.  WHAREVVEESSS

BESIDES, THEN MY FRIEND ANTHONY WAS LIKE WAaaaAAAAHHHOOOH I’M WATCHIN RANDOMS+))) SHUT UP YOU OLD BAT ((((!!!!!!

I got very angry with a  rude old lady today.

We have to cover breaks and lunches for everyone at the front end, as cashiers, so I had to cover the door greeters three times today.  Which blows, as you may very well guess.    Mind, that we’ve never been trained (as a group, or as far as I know, on an individual basis) for any of these positions other than the one we’re at–and were hired for–cashier.

The assumption, I suppose, is that the other main front-end gigs (in my time here, I’ve done three other people’s jobs, see, given them breaks :door greeter, fitting room/phonebank, and “sales associate”/restocker) are pretty simple, and if you are capable of cashiering, you are capable of doing any of them.  True as that may be, it doesn’t really work so well when you don’t even know what that job includes.  The only thing I’d ever observed door greeters doing is pulling carts up from the back area, making them easier for customers to get to, and handling return merchandise.

Apparently, they’re also supposed to wipe down carts.  My theory is this is a recent thing, due to the ~swine flu~, which I suppose should actually be a fear for the Walmart audience; ancient, malnutrition’d group that they are.

Soz there I iz, relieving some easily 70+ old lady of her post–which as far as I know, is standing there, occasionally moving carts up, and putting stickers on items people are returning.  So, I do just that–quite pleasantly, might I add.  Just today someone told me I was “probably the nicest cashier they ever had”, but then they had to ruin it by saying “and very beautiful, too”.  Okay, it isn’t ruining it, at all, but I would like to think that my politeness has it’s own merits, and it wasn’t just an in for some guy to try and get some–in some vague, impossible way.  Either way, thank you guy, for not being entirely creepy about it.  I hope I was really nice enough to remark upon, and it wasn’t just some line.

ok now what i really need complimented is my inability to write a cohesive thought without turning into five thoughts–or not complimented ~WHATEVER, MY FRIEND ANTHONY——————————-

So, I am very pleasant, people like me, and everyone is having a Good Day.

The old bag comes back to the entrance, and she sits down at the bench across from where I am standing, with the carts, et cetera, and drinks her coffee.  I’m not giving this situation much, if any thought.  Door greeting is total busywork, she’s just some old lady drinking coffee, and people are all responding to my politeness in kind.  All in all, pretty alright.

So, fifteen minutes later, she gets up and trots over to me, and I say (very cheerfully, as I am fitfully so at work, especially when interacting with these former deep sea gods) “are you ready for me to get out of your way?”, sort of a nice, deferential thing, right?  Like, “aw shucks ya old bitch, you do this better than me, because you have ‘life experience’.  be it as it may that your life experience has led you here, working well into your senility years, so I take your ‘experience’ with ‘decision making’ with a grain of salt, you still are old, so I am nice.”

I say that, and she’s all grimacing, some weird, manic face that was either a snarl or smile.  Snile.  Senile.  She says, “WELL, YOU COULD HELP ME WIPE DOWN THE CARTS, SINCE IT IS PART OF YOUR JOB, INSTEAD OF TALKING ON THE PHONE”

Daaaaaaamn, Fern.  What kind of 1800s Appalachian Mountain name is that, anyway?  So, daaaaamn, Fern.  Did they run out of pretty plants by the time your mom mistook you for some other hillmongoloid’s skittering afterbirth?  First thing that comes to the mind, I suppose.  It is fitting, being that a fern is a plant no one much cares for, just tolerates, that just refuses to die.

Then, more nerve, you think you can just start walking away after delivering that miscarriage of dementia right at my feet.  You actually just start walking away.  You don’t just accuse someone of something, then leave.  I don’t think you’d have the nerve to do that to a man of any age, or a woman over 30.  Trust baby, I’m the one you should be shamefully laying palms for.
So, not being one to leave someone thinking they’ve “got me”, I tell you what really happened:

“Well, I didn’t know that wiping the carts was a requirement, I wasn’t trained to door greet.  Also, I certainly was not talking on my phone.”  Verbatim, and yeah it isn’t as ~^tuff^~ as I would’ve liked to have been, but its really hard to temper myself without just sanitizing the emotion completely.

Then, you start walking back towards me, pantomiming someone looking at a phone.  Which, yeah, I guess I did look at my phone to check the time.  Didn’t really try to hide it, either.  I don’t wear a watch, and I carry my phone and wallet in my hands.  I don’t have big enough pockets for my wallet, and my phone just makes an ugly bulge, so I hold it–and no one has ever had a problem with that.  I’d check my phone’s time in front of a customer; to me, there is no shame in that.  It’s the time, for the love of christ.  Should I be in a sensory deprivation tank?  I’m certainly not going to put my important things down on the dirty, nasty, sticky floor of a massive, busy retailer just so some old bitch can make ABSOLUTELY SURE that I’m not talking on my phone.

So she pantomimes this, and I say to her right away, “No, I was checking the time.  Don’t wear a watch.”  probably still smiling, because I just cannot be rude.  That is why I’m so hateful on the internet haha

And she gives me like a, “OH CAUGHT BAD GIRL” look and says “you weren’t checking MY time”, which I’m really still not sure about the meaning of.

I think she was saying that she didn’t appreciate me checking what time it was on Earth, because in some worm-eaten mind, that could possibly be seen as a slight against the amount of time she took to drink her coffee?  I don’t attach ethical implications to non-ethics based actions; such as taking a look at the time.  Meanwhile, ugh.

This woman, just made me want to throw up.  Eventually, I just smiled and shrugged and left myself.  There was going to be no winning with her, and I had an actual job to do.  One that requires one or two mindgrapes more than hers, and pays one or two dimes more.  Really, if anything, I’m her superior–even in the job.   Door greeters never take over for cashiers, cashiers take over for them.  Sooo, one of us is trusted with cash and assumed to be capable enough to do any of the other jobs nearby, and one is old people who sit just jowl it up over by the doors for four hours, tops.

Either way, no one, but no one, accuses me of something I didn’t do.

My mother accused me of stealing a bracelet of hers for probably three years.  It’d come up every few months, and she’d be pissy with me for weeks at a time for this completely ridiculous transgression, that never happened.  She’d say shit like, “Maybe you gave it to a friend”, knowing full well that I’d never just given a friend some thing, it’d have to be concurrent with a birthday or something.  I definitely wouldn’t give one of my friends my mother’s bracelet–I would’ve assumed the woman who bore me knew my character well enough to figure that.  She didn’t, probably still doesn’t.  Anyway, three years later, she finds the bracelet in some jewelry box of hers or something, and never apologizes for the years of tension–all based on a superstition.

This wife of Lot accuses me of something I didn’t do, something that I wouldn’t do (and while this lady doesn’t know me from her biological father, the assumption that I’m the kind of person who is both rude and stupid enough to be talking on my phone during work hours, in front of customers, in front of co-workers, enrages me) and then when I defend myself against her ridiculous accusations, SHE gets indignant.  Like I’M the one out of line.

What if I just said I thought she stole something, like that coffee she was suckling?  I didn’t see her pay for it, for all I know, she stole it.  She did look a little nervous when she was drinking it, like maybe she knew what she did was wrong.  I have just as much reason to believe she stole that as she did to believe I was talking on my phone like some sort of sassy, gum-popping archetypical “teen” from the heady days of her …older youth.  I suppose me and Mamie Van Doren got together later that day and raced muscle cars with Daddy-O and Rat Phink. I had a scarf around my head, how irreverent!  Then we went and saw Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs, and I actually did sort of enjoy myself.  Sounds like an alright day, Mamie was good people.

That archetype exists much the same way as the thieving, piss-poor elderly crackpot who assumes the world is obligated to aid her–including, but not limited to, providing her with free coffee.  So, Fern, you stole that coffee.  Case closed, could not possibly convince me otherwise.  If you tried to do so (which you wouldn’t be able to, because all your life I’m sure you have been quite passive-confrontational, you’ll drop some shit on a person, but you don’t like to stick around to have to talk about it, do you–because you can’t defend your positions, because you aren’t that clever), I would just give you a knowing smirk and tell you that you better not have been drinking MY coffee, or some other incomprehensible, insulting garble.

So, yeah, that old lady made me angry.

2000 words worth of angry

She seriously sucked though

and I feel unfulfilled because I didn’t really get to rip into her; being a decent human being and all, I’m not going to actually be that mean to some old lady.  For all I know, she may really be losing her mind.

SHUT UP OLD LADY I’M ANTHONY NOW