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mood |
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garrulous |
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music |
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Beth Orton. Cat Power. Bjork. Radiohead. |
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I am very much relieved to realise that my initial notion of what my job entailed, was in fact fairly accurate. After Monday's busy 'ER' drama, today has been more like movie, 'Dazed & Confused', only with Milo in exchange for drugs.
Last night, in my bibulous state, I smoked some resin [read: scraped THC-infused tar off cone piece] and had a couple of tokes on my pipe. I stayed awake until 1:30am, watching Sex & the City, The Secret Life of Us and Malcolm in The Middle, on the tapes which Kyle had recorded for me. Right before passing out, I set my alarm for 7:47, because it made me think of aeroplanes. Only, being somewhat trashed, I set it for PM and not AM.
I was a little late for work, not that I can be late because I determine my own hours and can flexi-time when I choose.
Outfit du jour: black shirt with lacy frills, vynyl skirt with black, lace overskirt, and of course, my cutesy black shoes, which have barely left my feet since I bought them. I am also wearing the necklace I made out of the balls from roll-on deoderant containers [drilled, painted with rich blues and purple nailpoish & strung on black elastic].
I have made 2 tapes for a Spanish student so far, and compiled an extensive vocabulary list for my own amusement. Oh, and ventured to the Staff Room for Milo and bisucits, and intentionally contravened the direct orders written on bright paper, all over place: these are wash & clean mugs- you no take from room. " Hasn't this woman heard of number and gender agreements," A commented, and held up the line for hot drinks, while him and my Mother analysed the linguistic components of the message. I just ignored what it was insinuating, and boldly walked out with a mug full of steaming Milo.
I have hidden it around the corner of my computer's monitor. [mwuahahahahahahaa] Am I not nefarious in the extreme? Y'all better watch out! *boo*
Playlist du jour: Beth Orton: Central Reservation [currently playing] Cat Power: Moonpix Bjork: Post & Vespertine Radiohead: Amnesiac
I decided that I would only listen to female musicians at work [avoids explanation], but this morning, I had an argument about my troglodyte brother about Radiohead, so I opted to add them to the list of girly artists.
I was listening to the live recordings cd while I ate some cereal, and was sleepily pondering how Thom Yorke may be G-d incarnate, when Leon started crapping on. " Why are you listening to this bloke?" He asked, flexing his muscles slightly. "Ee sounds loike a fucking faggot." [ Leon has an incredibly broad Australian accent, apparently lacks an extensive lexicon, preferring to use the word 'fuck' as a noun, adjective and verb. He is a walking colloquialism. He drops the 'h' when he articulates himself, and in the most puerile fashion, refers to my Mum as 'woman', 'lady', 'wench' or 'old woman'. ]
I sat there and attempted to argue my point, specifically that Radiohead are innovators of their media and creators of the most canorous music since forever [note lack of objectivity]. " Fucken, nobody i know listens to that crap," Leon informed me. "And I know most of Perth. Fucken how can you loike this fuckn faggot? Ee sounds like a girl." Once he had finished doing an extremely poor rendition of Thom's voice, I explained to him that he knew absolutely nothing about nothing. " I'm not the only person on this planet who likes this band. And the fact that you associate with one subsection of the most isolated city in the world, is not indicative of a greater knowledge of the popularity of a band." " Eh, but..." " Leon, what does it matter what music I listen to? As long as I like it, it is irrelevant as to what percentage of the world likes the same band. If I like the sound of something, I like it."
Leon, obviously floundering in our somewhat silly discussion, switched to telling me how to run my life. " Put the orange juice in the fridge," He ordered. "And clean up that mess." " Leon, I am perfectly capable of organizing myself. I hardly need you to delegate orders." " Yes you do," He argued. "You moight be all roight at studying 'n that, but you don't know how to look after yourself." " Well, I doubt that you're the person who should be correcting that," I snapped at him, and in the process spilt orange juice all over the kitchen bench. "You've screwed up your life so far." " Fucken clean that up, you unco biatch," He demanded. Leon examined the half empty [or is that half-full] bottle of wine. "Why have you turned into such an alco?" " Just because I enjoy a glass of wine when I finish a 15 hour day?" I queried. "It's not like I am smoking buckets." " And if you were," He explained, "I would call you a 'druggy' instead of an 'alco'. Besoides, you didn't 'ave a glass of wine, you drank 'alf the fucken bottle." " A glass of wine is good for one's blood circulation," I rationalised, knowing full well that not only had I been consuming wine in a somewhat temerarious manner, but coupling it with sneaky hits of weed. " And considering how stressed I've been of late, it's probably a good thing. I'd rather drink wine that let all the blood pool in one spot on the side of my head, and swell out, tender and purple."
It's convenient that what has been normality for the best part of 8 years, since being diagnosed, has been treated with great seriousness. Nobody cared when it was a 'bump' on the side of my head, but [*shock* *gasp*], now, Jessi has a right hippocampal sclerosis.
Last night, when Leon was intentionally getting me all riled up, while I hurled insults and exchanged obsecenities at him, Mum scurried into my room. " Leave her alone," She warned him. "I don't want her getting all stressed out and having another seizure." Leon retreated back to his room.
Listening to Cat Power is sending me spiralling into a maudlin state of mind, one that is not conducive for getting any work done.
I miss my cat. I was shouting last night, and she ran out of my room. I saw her this morning, hiding under a palm tree in our front garden, but I can't tell whether or not she was just being lazy, or if she was upset with me or not feeling well, because she didn't move when I cooed to her. Usually, she comes bounding up to me and rubs her sweet, little face up and down my legs, as if polishing them like silver. I feel like patting her beautiful fur and listening to her purr. I like watching her eyes close and the corners of her mouth turn up [I swear my cat smiles] whenever I talk to her, or sing silly songs. She is perhaps the only living being, besides Sam and my Gar, who enjoys listening to me play banjelene, and she likes my singing.
[oh how time flies/ with crystal clear eyes]
The Spanish teacher made some comment just before, about how I looked as if I were dressed to go out somewhere. Ahem, just because I don't adhere to the unfashionable dress code of other Edith Cowan staff members, does NOT mean I am over dressed. I mean, I would really love to attire myself in white pant suits and gaudy belts, to wear scarves like an old Baboushka and dust off outfits from other realms of time and try to pass them off as professional clothes, BUT I just can't. I hate to say it, but I try to actually look NICE, neat and well-presented when I come to work. I guess that's just a naive perspective. Maybe, as I begin to experience the pecuniary benefits of this job, I will go shopping at a store more suited to a 40 year old woman. I'd hate to think that I was too nicely dressed for the job. My predescessor preferred billowing pants with gaudy prints and men's shirts. Somehow, I don't think that is really me. Perhaps I should don massively spiked, dog collars, pvc and fishnets. At least that way I could accept criticism as to the acceptability of my outfit.
It is nearly lunch time. After lunch, I am supposed to work on the database, which is sweet because I'll be getting paid $36 an hour [database rate + hourly work wage]. Yeehaw.
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