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Tuesday, Dec. 23, 2003 / 10:20 p.m. ~Christmas Wishes/Bursitis/Blepharospasm, Tra La La~ I'm acquiring a computer-related injury. A computer-usage-related injury. My mouse is on the table whereupon the old PC sits, and atop the old PC is the crappy little tiny itty bitty monitor, and other assorted crap I've not dusted in months, but luckily it's dark on this wall, probably because I never turn on the little lamp right... there, because then I'd see all the dust, and yeah, it's a vicious cycle. Right, the mouse. My shoulder has to raise to rest my hand on the mouse. Hence I have this one raised shoulder. I'm getting bursitis, or whatever. Yeah, ow. Shoulder. Hurt. Trying to accomplish stuff, long conversation on the AIM, then have to dash this off, then cat wants me, and she has every right, for we used to enjoy each other, but now I'm all, "Leave me alone! I'm trying to read this (write this, do this, start this, finish this, etc.)!" I have failed the cats. No, wait, we'll play. Later. Right now is Interweb addiction time, yet again. This, too, shall pass. It comes, it goes. I had stuff to work out, I did, through writing, intense writing, lots and lots, here, there, whew! And now it's socializing, and making new friends, online, maybe in person, reconnecting with old friends, it's a crazy time. The shoulder. Ow. The cat. And the same pair of jeans I've had on ALL FUCKING DAY, and they are tight in the crotch, yeah, you get me? But see, I was on the AIM thing, ate while I read, then listened, read, talked, etc, and that was my night. Talk time constraints? I don't know. Some people don't recognize when others are giving themselves. They only want more. Dammit. Yeah, I'm pissed, but I'll get over it. I have to be at work at 6:30 a.m, just so I can work enough overtime to make up for a short day. Fucking Christmas Eve. Christmas means I get shorted. This is a problem. And here's what else is, a problem, multitasking all fucking day, and then multitasking when I get home, not relaxing. It's like this, relax, relax, relax, multitask, go crazy, multitask, snap at people, go crazier, feel angry, get hot, multitask some more, tear off socks, suddenly it's too hot, it's in the 50s, wait, 60s all day, then raining, and it's stuffy, and it's dusty in here, and I have things to do, but the writing is too much, and then Gladys is scratching, "STOP!", and I just need to go to bed because I'm getting up at 5:30? You have GOT to be kidding. I just feel like I lost a block of time, when I kind of had it planned out very differently. Breathing. I hate my new filling, my tongue won't leave it alone, it's deserted me, found some new toy to play with. I have things to write about, but now I'm all writed out. Or, er, wait, that sounds so wrong, instant editing, edit as you go, written out. Ah, I was talking to myself at work today, while Kukla was at lunch and on her breaks. I'd say, "Oh, that does NOT look right, wait, now it does... she said to no one in particular", and keep going. Data entry can suck my balls. Dammit, I don't have balls. Data entry can suck my ovaries. Doesn't pack the same punch, does it? Female anatomy sounds so gentle. Oh wow, incredible little email note there. This person so GETS me. Do you know how rare that is? This feeling suddenly of being understood just makes me all warm and fuzzy. I'm still thinking about the boy. I really am, and now the perspective is, damn, that was fun, that first kiss is always the bestest. So exciting. I'd do it again, and promise not to freak out. I must save the freakouts. Really, could we do the first kiss again? Maybe kiss even more? Mmmmm... Here's how bad the stress/data entry/writing frenzy is: I've got a semi-permanent eye twitch. My glasses are not helping, I'm squinting with them on. My eyes are SO strained. I have big baggage under them too. I'm puffy, in the eyes. My eyes are failing me. What if they stop working all together? Or is that altogether? Okay, 5:30, huh? How can I stay awake to watch for Santa tomorrow night if I'm gonna be all exhausted from getting up hours before the fucking sunrise? Dear Santa, Please don't forget to bring me the new car I asked for. It's so important. Is Mrs Claus feeling well? Will she be shagging her favorite 'Santa's Helper' while you're on your long journey delivering all those very many presents? A woman gets lonely, you know. Sorry to bring it up, Santa. Sorry. Also, look, Santa, if it's not too much trouble, could you see to it that I find someone to have really hot sex with this coming year? I'm clearly in need of it, or I wouldn't get so freaked out just because I get close to having it. Thanks for listening, Santa, don't forget the car, please, okay? Okay, safe journey, hello to Rudolph and the others, eh? Yours, Joleen Cost of the War in Iraq
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