The doctor enthusiastically prescribes narcotics (and other stories.)
I? Managed to file my taxes at the last possible minute this year because I am a very special person. The kind of special that starts with "short" and ends with "bus." Because I was convinced that I could wait until Tuesday night until I realized (while driving into work) that I do not actually get out of work until Wednesday morning.
Short. Bus.
Somewhere, there is a cartoon version of me skipping through a field of daisies singing "la la la" and throwing flower petals because I am just that deluded. Thank you Pacific time zones. Because of you, I was able to go back in time and file my taxes.
This will, of course, never happen again.
---
I finally caught up on most of the TV watching I'd missed when I foolishly decided that two jobs was a good idea. On some level, maybe it was a good idea, but getting home at one in the morning when you know you have to be up at seven the next day is nice when it's a once in a while thing as opposed to, you know, every. damn. day.
BSG: I waited until the last episode was out to actually watch "Daybreak" and, for the better part of the first two hours I was utterly convinced that they were all going to die but this was the best damn space battle in the entire show. So I didn't care. I'm not even sure it was the best damn space battle in the entire show but, man, watching it play out I forgot that I was supposed to be cooking my dinner. It's a damn good thing that I hadn't actually put the thing in the oven yet because I did not remember that I had a dinner to cook.
I'm still not sure how I feel about the last part, though. It worked to tie things up but it also felt a little rushed, especially after watching the previous two parts. There was kind of a WTF factor going on too. I wonder if the last conversation between Baltar and Six was really necessary or if it was way too redundant. Also the magically disappearing Starbuck both made sense and seemed like cheating. But, man, Adama. I was crying like a crying thing at the end of this episode. Hell, this show has turned me into a puddle of goo more times than I even want to think about. Even when it got weird, it was a damn fine show and I'm going to miss it.
SPN: I wasn't sure what to make of the whole angel and demon thing going on but then they throw "On the Head of a Pin" at me and make Castiel so much more interesting. And then? Dean listening to NPR and driving a fucking Prius. Wearing suspenders and taking pointers from the Ghostfacers who are giving pointers taken from the Winchesters. It is a hilariously cruel, cruel world. And then? The Prophet Chuck who writes a series of cult novels with patently stupid covers and taking digs at fans? I could hate Kripke and everything he stands for but with Dean's tortured expression when he shows that girl his tattoo? Howling. With. Laughter. Also, Castiel's, "I'm not giving you a hint" face.
Oh, Supernatural, you cheesy, stupid, wonderful show. Thank you for giving me some funny again.
---
Until a week or so ago, I had no health insurance. This was fortunately not something I put off until the last possible minute, but that might have had something to do with the stabbing pain in my side. After a week or so of sleepless nights trying to find the one position that did not leave me whimpering in agony, I decided that maybe I should go visit the doctor--insurance or no insurance.
There are times, and this was maybe one of them, that I might have preferred a few hours of stabbing pain to being poked in the source of the stabbing pain and frowned at impersonally. Because when people poke you where it hurts and ask you if it really hurts, occasionally maybe you want to say, "Yes, it fucking hurts, you moron." I would do this if I was not prone to going, "Oh hey, that hurts, let's poke it," myself. So, I grimaced manfully instead and was poked before she decided to send me out into the world for more tests that involved more poking, and drawing blood.
Before she sent me on my way I decided to ask--because I was feeling just that pathetic--if perhaps she had anything that would knock me out for a while just so that I could sleep. I swear to donuts I have never seen anyone shut down so fast. While she considered the wall, I thought, "Oh shit, she thinks I'm trolling for drugs." Then she turned back and said, "I could write you a prescription for Vicodin." Her face loomed closer and there was weird glint in her eye when she added, "It's a narcotic."
I stared at her and, while part of me wanted to say, "No really? Because I thought it was Children's Tylenol," the other part of me was still gaping at her sudden fiendish enthusiasm. The gaping part won.
"I, uh," I said, "Don't know if I. . ."
"It'll knock you out," she said quickly, nodding.
"I bet it will," I thought. "Yeah, but. . ." I said.
It's not that part of me wasn't saying, "Hey, Vicodin. Someone will think this is seriously cool." But the weird panicky part of me was saying, "Don't eat the candy! It's weird candy!" and I could literally feel myself trying to blend in with the paper on the exam table. I gave up and thanked the nice lady for her drugs and ran away from her crazy eyes.
Now I have a bottle of Vicodin that I am still afraid to open and a diagnosis that I have yet to confirm because I haven't had time to, you know, have people poke me with gel covered instruments and frown over wavering images of organs that I did not know I had until someone poked me and said, "Hm, it might be that one."
---
Because we sell the garden variety porn at work, we also find the garden variety porn freed from its plastic packaging and strewn all over the Religion section. Or, at the very least, shelved tidily between Augustine and Benedict XVI. This oddity is further exacerbated by the fact that the Sex and Erotica section is about two shelves away from the isolated (and apparently coveted) Religion section. I have even found it tucked hastily under a CD listening station and shelved with the Children's Bargain Books. Some thoughtful soul even takes it upon himself once a week to install a chair facing the wall in the stacks so that he can have some private time to himself with a stack of magazines in a public place. There are days when I'm not actually sure if it's more disturbing that I find porn in the Children's section or that someone sets out his own (very) semi-private jerk off space in our store once a week.
There is also the cafe regular who installs himself at the seat closest to the condiment table where it is possible to see what he's looking at on the internet while sorting through about ten decks of cards and performing bizarre experiments with probability. He also gives the cafe supervisor gifts of food every time he comes in. Today it was a mango.
Porn might not be all I find strewn around the store at night, but it is the bulk of it. Sometimes, I admire the cheek of some of these rogues but, at the end of the night, picking up their messes, I usually find myself thinking, "People are fucking pigs."
Short. Bus.
Somewhere, there is a cartoon version of me skipping through a field of daisies singing "la la la" and throwing flower petals because I am just that deluded. Thank you Pacific time zones. Because of you, I was able to go back in time and file my taxes.
This will, of course, never happen again.
---
I finally caught up on most of the TV watching I'd missed when I foolishly decided that two jobs was a good idea. On some level, maybe it was a good idea, but getting home at one in the morning when you know you have to be up at seven the next day is nice when it's a once in a while thing as opposed to, you know, every. damn. day.
BSG: I waited until the last episode was out to actually watch "Daybreak" and, for the better part of the first two hours I was utterly convinced that they were all going to die but this was the best damn space battle in the entire show. So I didn't care. I'm not even sure it was the best damn space battle in the entire show but, man, watching it play out I forgot that I was supposed to be cooking my dinner. It's a damn good thing that I hadn't actually put the thing in the oven yet because I did not remember that I had a dinner to cook.
I'm still not sure how I feel about the last part, though. It worked to tie things up but it also felt a little rushed, especially after watching the previous two parts. There was kind of a WTF factor going on too. I wonder if the last conversation between Baltar and Six was really necessary or if it was way too redundant. Also the magically disappearing Starbuck both made sense and seemed like cheating. But, man, Adama. I was crying like a crying thing at the end of this episode. Hell, this show has turned me into a puddle of goo more times than I even want to think about. Even when it got weird, it was a damn fine show and I'm going to miss it.
SPN: I wasn't sure what to make of the whole angel and demon thing going on but then they throw "On the Head of a Pin" at me and make Castiel so much more interesting. And then? Dean listening to NPR and driving a fucking Prius. Wearing suspenders and taking pointers from the Ghostfacers who are giving pointers taken from the Winchesters. It is a hilariously cruel, cruel world. And then? The Prophet Chuck who writes a series of cult novels with patently stupid covers and taking digs at fans? I could hate Kripke and everything he stands for but with Dean's tortured expression when he shows that girl his tattoo? Howling. With. Laughter. Also, Castiel's, "I'm not giving you a hint" face.
Oh, Supernatural, you cheesy, stupid, wonderful show. Thank you for giving me some funny again.
---
Until a week or so ago, I had no health insurance. This was fortunately not something I put off until the last possible minute, but that might have had something to do with the stabbing pain in my side. After a week or so of sleepless nights trying to find the one position that did not leave me whimpering in agony, I decided that maybe I should go visit the doctor--insurance or no insurance.
There are times, and this was maybe one of them, that I might have preferred a few hours of stabbing pain to being poked in the source of the stabbing pain and frowned at impersonally. Because when people poke you where it hurts and ask you if it really hurts, occasionally maybe you want to say, "Yes, it fucking hurts, you moron." I would do this if I was not prone to going, "Oh hey, that hurts, let's poke it," myself. So, I grimaced manfully instead and was poked before she decided to send me out into the world for more tests that involved more poking, and drawing blood.
Before she sent me on my way I decided to ask--because I was feeling just that pathetic--if perhaps she had anything that would knock me out for a while just so that I could sleep. I swear to donuts I have never seen anyone shut down so fast. While she considered the wall, I thought, "Oh shit, she thinks I'm trolling for drugs." Then she turned back and said, "I could write you a prescription for Vicodin." Her face loomed closer and there was weird glint in her eye when she added, "It's a narcotic."
I stared at her and, while part of me wanted to say, "No really? Because I thought it was Children's Tylenol," the other part of me was still gaping at her sudden fiendish enthusiasm. The gaping part won.
"I, uh," I said, "Don't know if I. . ."
"It'll knock you out," she said quickly, nodding.
"I bet it will," I thought. "Yeah, but. . ." I said.
It's not that part of me wasn't saying, "Hey, Vicodin. Someone will think this is seriously cool." But the weird panicky part of me was saying, "Don't eat the candy! It's weird candy!" and I could literally feel myself trying to blend in with the paper on the exam table. I gave up and thanked the nice lady for her drugs and ran away from her crazy eyes.
Now I have a bottle of Vicodin that I am still afraid to open and a diagnosis that I have yet to confirm because I haven't had time to, you know, have people poke me with gel covered instruments and frown over wavering images of organs that I did not know I had until someone poked me and said, "Hm, it might be that one."
---
Because we sell the garden variety porn at work, we also find the garden variety porn freed from its plastic packaging and strewn all over the Religion section. Or, at the very least, shelved tidily between Augustine and Benedict XVI. This oddity is further exacerbated by the fact that the Sex and Erotica section is about two shelves away from the isolated (and apparently coveted) Religion section. I have even found it tucked hastily under a CD listening station and shelved with the Children's Bargain Books. Some thoughtful soul even takes it upon himself once a week to install a chair facing the wall in the stacks so that he can have some private time to himself with a stack of magazines in a public place. There are days when I'm not actually sure if it's more disturbing that I find porn in the Children's section or that someone sets out his own (very) semi-private jerk off space in our store once a week.
There is also the cafe regular who installs himself at the seat closest to the condiment table where it is possible to see what he's looking at on the internet while sorting through about ten decks of cards and performing bizarre experiments with probability. He also gives the cafe supervisor gifts of food every time he comes in. Today it was a mango.
Porn might not be all I find strewn around the store at night, but it is the bulk of it. Sometimes, I admire the cheek of some of these rogues but, at the end of the night, picking up their messes, I usually find myself thinking, "People are fucking pigs."