October 10th, 2004

I know I left my brain around here *someplace*...

...but I'm not finding it.

I feel dissociated. Might be because the headache is still with me; after I'm done molesting the keyboard (typoed that as "keybroad" originally; anybody got one they could spare?) I'll see if I have stamina for an exercise walk; that might help it go away.

I've got a ten AM interview to go to, other than that the day has the typical huge agenda, but no schedule. Living in this rooming-house is getting more and more surreal, and I have no local reminders of the world I'm trying to build. How do you continue to *tell* that you're sane and it's the rest of the inhabitants of the sanitarium who are raising bats in their bonnets? Nothing earth-shaking; Liz rearranged the living room again, and someone reaaranged the fridge, so I can't find the slab of meat I know should still be in there.

It's Sunday. Okay, I've got that part right. I've got the interview at 10am, and then I can clean my room and do laundry. And then email invoices and comments to Dane, and ask him if he wants me to come down to the warehouse, if it doesn't conflict with taking Gabe to do a more typical kid-thing on Monday. That means checking with Gabe to make sure he still wants to do it. I'd been thinking of the beach, or possibly the boardwalk. Or maybe the roller-coaster park, which I can't afford, but how long is he going to be eleven?

Off in search of neurons,


The Further Decay of the Public

Applied for another graveyard job this morning, at another Target. This one is closer and physically nicer, but the manager is a shithead, so if I get to choose between the two I'll take the other one.

Had breakfast there, which was an error. What they're now calling "french toast" is toasted egg-bread served with plastic butter and inorganic syrup. The "sausage" I'd guess to be pressed mouse and cardboard. Of course, their target audience is people who came to shop, forgot to eat, and are too honest to steal food from the aisles, so the business strategy is to serve as cheap a meal as possible and charge *just* enough less to keep 'em from leaving in disgust and going to the fast-fooderie across the way.

And Target is supposed to be one of the *better* retail chains to work for. You still have to pee in a bottle, though. I think it'd be more amusing to pee on the manager, even though that's not my particular fetish, but if I showed up with all the equipment I'd want to exercise *my* fetishes, I don't think she'd hang around for a demonstration.