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Thursday, May. 02, 2002 / 1:22 p.m. ~Smells Like Summer/Stop All the Fucking~ I have a neighbor I never see. FedEx parcel delivery notices hang on his doorknob like Do Not Disturb signs. There is something blooming along the Interstate, although I cannot see it, that smells wonderful, sweet like Summer. The air today is thick with moisture, the kind of air you can see. The clouds are heavy, but the sun is shining and it's hot. Too hot. It feels like Summer, smells like Summer, and all the trees have leaves now. It happened so fast, or so it seems now. I'm wearing a cotton short sleeved shirt I bought at a Thrift Store a few years ago. I haven't worn it for a year because a button fell off and I needed to sew it on. This morning before work I grabbed some thread and a needle, along with my nail clippers and an Emery board, and took it all to work. I sat and sewed on the missing button, and re-sewed three others that looked like they'd fall off soon too. At work, sewing on buttons, on a shirt I'm wearing. Then clipping my nails, filing them. I'm so comfortable now, in Chinos, cotton shirt, Birkenstocks, hair pulled back and up. Then an insane amount of paperwork, a new project, verifications for Child Support. All terminated employees. Keying makes my wrist hurt, but I do it, fast, speedy, I'm efficient today, I'm fuel efficient, I'm thriving, I'm done, already. Next pile after lunch. Lunch is a HUGE burrito, said Chicken Adobo Burrito from the Whole Foods/Farmers Market. It's cooling as I write. Too hot to eat, I'm moving too fast. My horoscope says I'm figuring out my love life. Am I? What love life? Sandy? Nah. Skipper? He hasn't called. Good. I hope he doesn't. My love life is me, trying to love me, trying to make something of me. Me, me, me. I wanted to read at work today, but this project is going to kill us. The keying (what used to be known as typing) is going to kill us. I have a sticky keyboard at work. Need to get that replaced. But it's work, it's tedious, it's boring, but it's work, it feels right. Penelope worries about the kids, the children who need this Child Support, but I say two words, babe, BIRTH CONTROL. If you're gonna do it, take care of yourself, if you can't afford it, don't have it, them, her, him. But for now, it's giving us work to do. All these deadbeat dads working for the giant corporation, all these offices trying to locate, to garnish, to withhold. Is it really all about the children? Or too many irresponsible people fucking? Hopefully this thing is cool enough to eat now. I'm starving. Cost of the War in Iraq
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