05/25/2005 - 8:38 a.m. | loyal to my sorrowful country

God, I need to do something with myself. Without class or a daytime job or something, there's not much I can do to fill up my time. Besides sleep, and of course, that has completely fucked up my schedule, so that now I'm awake for all of 5 hours or so each day. I'm only up to cross the guard, watch as many reruns as I can stand, wait for Missy to call so I can tell her about it, and then pass out again.

I thought I was all set with that geology library job - would have something to do in the mornings, make a very needed hundred plus dollars a week. I was sure I nailed the interview, but I found myself staring at a form e-mail yesterday. Not even a letter anymore, you cheap bastards. Well, not one to be easily thrown, I got right back on the horse... and rearranged furniture. See, I was trying to make it so that the wardrobe things made sort of a fort in front of my bed, but there wasn't nearly enough room. Plus, my cardboard periscope was not nearly as functional as I hoped. My bed is where my bookshelves were, my bookshelves are where my bed was, and my heart is down in the chicken house. Now I'm trying to find jobs, but there's nothing anywhere I've looked. The best I found was data entry at some church, and I believe they said, "Religious experience required," and I have not seen God yet. [Meanwhile, I was talking to Andy yesterday, and he's apparently a magician's assistant for some midget, making anywhere between $15 and $50 an hour - how the fuck did he get so lucky? And how did I miss that on the job board?] So I dunno what to do besides sell my few meager possessions on eBay. I seriously doubt anyone is going to pay the $300 my claw machine Cactus In Sombrero is worth (That's sentimental value there, you bitches!)

Speaking of which, I got dicked by that BidPay asshole I bought my second Polaroid camera from on eBay. Make me pay some stupid ass $2 surcharge and then send me a camera with a fucked up lens? I ain't kissin' that old bitch! It takes pictures OK maybe, but I'm still mad as hell, and the only power afforded to me is that of a single negative feedback point. "Seller is not GR8! L@@K F-------" I should legally be allowed to strange that man. Kip Larkington or whatever his faggot name was.

Perhaps these disrupted circadian rhythms are partially responsible for why I am now eating a bowl of Spaghettios at 8:30 in the morning (the other part being that I am a gross fucker).