Tiny Molecules In Space
Man, I remember all the times I was all, "I am totally never posting here again harumph!" and then three days later I would sheepishly post a really long survey about what color socks I was wearing. Then, things actually started happening and I suddenly clammed up. I doubt you'd want to hear about the things I was doing then ("Today me and my girlfriend went for a walk! Then we ate pizza! Then we had a fight about DNA!"), though things did pick up for a bit over the summer ("Today, I learned that I probably oughtn't try to claim the moral high ground ever!") and I still didn't record it. I can't help but wonder who knows about this journal in my current circle of friends; it'd be nice to have an outlet for my observations without the social stigma of everyone knowing what terrible things I am saying about them.
How many of my friends are still around? I checked my info page and noted that I hadn't updated in 41 weeks. That's enough weeks for there to be three new Popes and another Beatles remix record. I don't even have any pictures of how I look now, though if you imagined me as Edward Morse, that'd be totally awesome. I love Edward Morse.
I've lost the Live Journal style I employed, I think. My Space has ruined my blogging skills.
Here is an update about my life: Over the summer I lost, in chronological order, my car, my girlfriend and my job. Then I got another job, which I will be quitting in about four days to go back to college where I will be ten years older than everyone else. This means I can buy booze to drink by myself while I watch reruns of Bewitched or, barring that, My Three Sons.
My car died in a collision caused by another motorist waving a vehicle through when their lane was full and mine was empty. I slammed into a black truck's right front passenger tire; I rocked forward in my seat and have a mental image of seeing my airbags inflate, touch the tip of my nose and then sag sadly into obsolescence, taking my vehicle with them because the repairs post-airbag deployment cost more than my car was worth. I slid my feet into my sandals and stepped out of my car, near spitting with rage, only to note both the badge and gun clipped to the other motorist's belt.
"Well," I said to myself, rocking back on my heels and feeling all the tiny cuts that covered my feet and hands from my airbag-shattered windshield, "you probably shouldn't clothesline a police officer into traffic even if he did just directly cause the destruction of your car." I flushed the anger out of my system, which left me feeling exhausted and shaky; the police officer dealt with me better that way since he desperately wanted to be in charge anyway. His wife, who was shaped rather more like a beanbag than I'd assume a fairly handsome, rugged fellow like the one who drove his truck in front of my car would marry, showed up and bought me a bottle of water. I was hacking up whatever fills deploying airbags since it moved directly into my lungs after exploding my dashboard and windshield.
We worked things out about as well as could be expected, I learned from a wrecker that my car was totaled and the insurance ended up paying me about fifteen dollars less than I paid initially for my transportation. Luckily, I didn't suffer any damage beyond a few minor abrasions and a very mild bruise where my seat belt held me safely in place. Everyone said, "You know, if you'd been going fifty miles faster, you'd be thankful for those airbags," to which I replied, "If I was going that fast, I'd've been on the highway where nobody would turn left in front of me." I'm still kind of bitter about the car.
I didn't lose my job so much as quit it, but it depressed me enough that I definitely lost in the transaction. I spent my last day not stealing anything because the corporate heads called in other folks to supervise my final hours. It made me feel all tingly that, after almost four years, they figured I'd make a break with a bag full of illicit supplements. Fortunately, I stocked up before I even put my two weeks in; admittedly, I don't take any vitamins because a carefully monitored diet does all that better than a stupid pill, but it's really the thought that counts.
Writing about a summer of loss is a touch bitterer than my Live Journal return should be. I will instead turn my focus elsewhere:
I just saw the news that former president Gerald Ford died. The universe conspires against a jovial post! I will sadly note that my most vivid memory of Mr. Ford was the episode of The Simpsons that made fun of him: "Homer, do you like... football?" "Do you like... beer?"
After browsing through my Photo Bucket account on a whim, I am dishearted to discover no timely photographs. Every image of myself currently available on the internet is so far out of date that it barely resembles my current appearance. Maybe I'll be around a camera someday soon; the most recent picture I have is on My Space and even it doesn't reflect me much better than a dinosaur's fossilized skeleton reflects the actual creature (that makes it sound like I've put on a lot of weight).
I have purchased several cds of bands nobody's heard of in the intervening 41 weeks. That's a pretty safe assumption to make about me, of course; I've actually fallen almost completely off the grid cinematically though.
I'll be back.
How many of my friends are still around? I checked my info page and noted that I hadn't updated in 41 weeks. That's enough weeks for there to be three new Popes and another Beatles remix record. I don't even have any pictures of how I look now, though if you imagined me as Edward Morse, that'd be totally awesome. I love Edward Morse.
I've lost the Live Journal style I employed, I think. My Space has ruined my blogging skills.
Here is an update about my life: Over the summer I lost, in chronological order, my car, my girlfriend and my job. Then I got another job, which I will be quitting in about four days to go back to college where I will be ten years older than everyone else. This means I can buy booze to drink by myself while I watch reruns of Bewitched or, barring that, My Three Sons.
My car died in a collision caused by another motorist waving a vehicle through when their lane was full and mine was empty. I slammed into a black truck's right front passenger tire; I rocked forward in my seat and have a mental image of seeing my airbags inflate, touch the tip of my nose and then sag sadly into obsolescence, taking my vehicle with them because the repairs post-airbag deployment cost more than my car was worth. I slid my feet into my sandals and stepped out of my car, near spitting with rage, only to note both the badge and gun clipped to the other motorist's belt.
"Well," I said to myself, rocking back on my heels and feeling all the tiny cuts that covered my feet and hands from my airbag-shattered windshield, "you probably shouldn't clothesline a police officer into traffic even if he did just directly cause the destruction of your car." I flushed the anger out of my system, which left me feeling exhausted and shaky; the police officer dealt with me better that way since he desperately wanted to be in charge anyway. His wife, who was shaped rather more like a beanbag than I'd assume a fairly handsome, rugged fellow like the one who drove his truck in front of my car would marry, showed up and bought me a bottle of water. I was hacking up whatever fills deploying airbags since it moved directly into my lungs after exploding my dashboard and windshield.
We worked things out about as well as could be expected, I learned from a wrecker that my car was totaled and the insurance ended up paying me about fifteen dollars less than I paid initially for my transportation. Luckily, I didn't suffer any damage beyond a few minor abrasions and a very mild bruise where my seat belt held me safely in place. Everyone said, "You know, if you'd been going fifty miles faster, you'd be thankful for those airbags," to which I replied, "If I was going that fast, I'd've been on the highway where nobody would turn left in front of me." I'm still kind of bitter about the car.
I didn't lose my job so much as quit it, but it depressed me enough that I definitely lost in the transaction. I spent my last day not stealing anything because the corporate heads called in other folks to supervise my final hours. It made me feel all tingly that, after almost four years, they figured I'd make a break with a bag full of illicit supplements. Fortunately, I stocked up before I even put my two weeks in; admittedly, I don't take any vitamins because a carefully monitored diet does all that better than a stupid pill, but it's really the thought that counts.
Writing about a summer of loss is a touch bitterer than my Live Journal return should be. I will instead turn my focus elsewhere:
I just saw the news that former president Gerald Ford died. The universe conspires against a jovial post! I will sadly note that my most vivid memory of Mr. Ford was the episode of The Simpsons that made fun of him: "Homer, do you like... football?" "Do you like... beer?"
After browsing through my Photo Bucket account on a whim, I am dishearted to discover no timely photographs. Every image of myself currently available on the internet is so far out of date that it barely resembles my current appearance. Maybe I'll be around a camera someday soon; the most recent picture I have is on My Space and even it doesn't reflect me much better than a dinosaur's fossilized skeleton reflects the actual creature (that makes it sound like I've put on a lot of weight).
I have purchased several cds of bands nobody's heard of in the intervening 41 weeks. That's a pretty safe assumption to make about me, of course; I've actually fallen almost completely off the grid cinematically though.
I'll be back.