(no subject)
I used to special order obscure books for weirdos. The service wasn't actually formally restricted to weirdos, but this seemed to be the bulk of my clientele, in spite of the stolid location (downtown DC) and the characterless megastore in which I worked. Closet keeblers masquerading as ponytailed programmers, fans of Suzanne Somers' poetry, folks hitting the dregs of the self-help genre - You Too Can Read Faces!, the very religious, and, above all, New Agers. The first sentence of the best letter I received while working there: I am writhing to inquire about an ordure that was not satisfied. His ordure, in contrast to his English, was unmemorable.
There was a guy named Ed where my mother once worked who really tried her patience. Probably with good reason; though ending up loopy beyond belief, she's always known when someone is trustable and true. He was likely a dim bulb, or perhaps he pursued her, and was not welcome; he certainly did not win her favor. She always referred to him as Continuing Ed.
I made her cry on the phone last night. oof. I was attempting just now to transcribe the conversation, but it was killing me with guilt. I wasn't awful, though I was blunt; the circumstances, however, are awful. She knows now what's going to happen to her, that they are taking her smoky little home away, and with it her independence, and her rights.
I feel like I slept in the clothes I'm wearing. I said fucking during our staff meeting this morning, and slapped my hands over my mouth in astonishment. Moments later, I let rip with asswipe. It is an accommodating crowd, but this sudden sense of liberty is a little peculiar.
There was a guy named Ed where my mother once worked who really tried her patience. Probably with good reason; though ending up loopy beyond belief, she's always known when someone is trustable and true. He was likely a dim bulb, or perhaps he pursued her, and was not welcome; he certainly did not win her favor. She always referred to him as Continuing Ed.
I made her cry on the phone last night. oof. I was attempting just now to transcribe the conversation, but it was killing me with guilt. I wasn't awful, though I was blunt; the circumstances, however, are awful. She knows now what's going to happen to her, that they are taking her smoky little home away, and with it her independence, and her rights.
I feel like I slept in the clothes I'm wearing. I said fucking during our staff meeting this morning, and slapped my hands over my mouth in astonishment. Moments later, I let rip with asswipe. It is an accommodating crowd, but this sudden sense of liberty is a little peculiar.