i actually had work at work! it was very exciting!
so one of the admins at work who is now on leave somehow managed to screw up two expense reports - she submitted the same expenses twice, for one thing - but because this happened before my time (like, last year) and because she's on leave, it took me and one of the girls in the expenses office (her more than me) two weeks to figure out how to fix it. and you fix it by trashing the old expense reports and starting over. it was actually very satisfying to be able to submit two accurate expense reports, considering i was doing it to fix mistakes by someone i don't know who made them five months ago.
i may or may not be panicking about my bigbang. >.< i can't end it where i want to end it because i don't have time to get there, and i think i have to cut a bunch of stuff, and while i'm starting to get a vague idea of the ending it feels like there's so. much. more. i need to write before may 1. also i need a title and to fill in a couple persistent details. ialsohadabriefideaaboutnextyear'sbang. why do i do this to myself?
on the other hand, i have successfully stuffed my face with the cheesy farfel bake of dairy overload, i have chocolate chips with which to make chocolate covered matzo brittle, and i can sleep late tomorrow. woot.
self-i-so-late by order of the daleks. i always want to write that as "daaaleks" because that's how i hear it in my head. fun but also creepy.
milo manara, who's a comic book artist currently on lockdown in italy with his wife, has been drawing women working in essential positions - not just doctors and nurses and emt's, but janitors and cashiers and truck drivers and cops. he usually draws, you know, sexpot superheroes in skintight costumes. not cleaning ladies carrying mops and wearing face masks. but drawing these women is helping him cope with the stress - he's seventy-four - and it's his way of letting them know someone is grateful to them for the risks they have to take and hasn't forgotten them.
this will make you want bread.
This morning I love everyone,
even Jerome, the neighbor I hate,
and the sun. And the sun
has pre-warmed my bucket seat
for the drive up Arsenal Street
with the hot car effect,
a phenomenon climatologists
use to explain global warming
to senators and kids.
I love the limited edition
Swingline gold stapler
in the oil change lounge
which can, like a poem,
affix anything to anything
on paper. One sheet of paper,
for instance, for that cloud of gnats,
one for this lady’s pit mix
wagging his tail so violently
I fear he’ll hurt his hips.
One sheet for glittered lip balm,
for eye contact, Bitcoin extortion
and the imperfect tense.
Sheets for each unfulfilled wish
I left in a penny in a mall fountain.
Sun spills into the lounge
through the window decal
in geometric Tetris wedges.
I have a sheet for Tetris,
its random sequence of pieces
falling toward me in this well
like color coded aspects of the life
I neglected to live, for the pleasure
of making line after line
disappear. The gold stapler
has twenty-sheet capacity
so I straighten my stack
on the reception counter
and staple the day together
with an echoing chunk.
--"Fool's Gold", Ted Mathys
i may or may not be panicking about my bigbang. >.< i can't end it where i want to end it because i don't have time to get there, and i think i have to cut a bunch of stuff, and while i'm starting to get a vague idea of the ending it feels like there's so. much. more. i need to write before may 1. also i need a title and to fill in a couple persistent details. ialsohadabriefideaaboutnextyear'sbang. why do i do this to myself?
on the other hand, i have successfully stuffed my face with the cheesy farfel bake of dairy overload, i have chocolate chips with which to make chocolate covered matzo brittle, and i can sleep late tomorrow. woot.
self-i-so-late by order of the daleks. i always want to write that as "daaaleks" because that's how i hear it in my head. fun but also creepy.
milo manara, who's a comic book artist currently on lockdown in italy with his wife, has been drawing women working in essential positions - not just doctors and nurses and emt's, but janitors and cashiers and truck drivers and cops. he usually draws, you know, sexpot superheroes in skintight costumes. not cleaning ladies carrying mops and wearing face masks. but drawing these women is helping him cope with the stress - he's seventy-four - and it's his way of letting them know someone is grateful to them for the risks they have to take and hasn't forgotten them.
this will make you want bread.
This morning I love everyone,
even Jerome, the neighbor I hate,
and the sun. And the sun
has pre-warmed my bucket seat
for the drive up Arsenal Street
with the hot car effect,
a phenomenon climatologists
use to explain global warming
to senators and kids.
I love the limited edition
Swingline gold stapler
in the oil change lounge
which can, like a poem,
affix anything to anything
on paper. One sheet of paper,
for instance, for that cloud of gnats,
one for this lady’s pit mix
wagging his tail so violently
I fear he’ll hurt his hips.
One sheet for glittered lip balm,
for eye contact, Bitcoin extortion
and the imperfect tense.
Sheets for each unfulfilled wish
I left in a penny in a mall fountain.
Sun spills into the lounge
through the window decal
in geometric Tetris wedges.
I have a sheet for Tetris,
its random sequence of pieces
falling toward me in this well
like color coded aspects of the life
I neglected to live, for the pleasure
of making line after line
disappear. The gold stapler
has twenty-sheet capacity
so I straighten my stack
on the reception counter
and staple the day together
with an echoing chunk.
--"Fool's Gold", Ted Mathys