NOPE

Ranting. It’s a thing that happening.  Right now, in fact.

Whoever invented paperwork — scratch that, whoever decided that online applications were the way to go — deserves to be shot. I’ve spent the last four days making phone calls, tracking down documents/ receipts, and filling out online applications as a function of being an adult, and it’s still not done. Not because I didn’t dedicate hours this week to doing it (I did.), but because no one seems to be able to give me clear answers, and there’s some ridiculously convoluted system in place for getting things done. So, here I am, four days in, and I still have at least two phone calls to make, a doctor’s note to obtain, records to track down, and a shit-ton of files to submit to complete an application that I was told would only take five minutes to fill out.

I quit. I’m done. No more adulting. Not until Monday, at least, because if I have to wait out one more automated system or photocopy one more document, I’m going to hurt something.

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

The Zombie Shuffle

I am not a morning person. Shocking, I know, since I’ve ranted about being nocturnal before. But, well. It’s more than that.

When I sleep, I sleep hard. I sleep like the fucking dead. Anything short of an actual emergency isn’t even going to register as a blip on my radar when I’m out cold. I’ve slept through house parties, car alarms, alarm clocks, telephone calls, screaming matches — you name it, and I’ve probably slept through it. And while this makes sleeping around inconsiderate carbon-based life forms easier, it also makes transitioning between states of consciousness kind of, well . . . I refer to my “waking up” routine as “The Zombie Shuffle” for a reason.

I wake up confused. Anything said to me before I have actually hauled ass out of bed gets eaten by the trash compacter in my brain. Retrieval is not nearly as safe or efficient as simply repeating whatever it was that you wanted me to know.

That first cup of tea is vital. Everyone I live with knows better than to talk to me before I have the first cup of tea in me. Well. Tea and/or breakfast. Because I tend not to like humanity much when I’m feeling distinctly zombiesque, in part because I greatly dislike feeling undead, but also because I’m totally down for trying out the zombie-diet until I’m reminded why that’s a bad idea. (It’s a pretty standard list: the level of clean-up required. Prion disease. The fact that brain matter has a distinctly slimy texture.) Also, I’m not touchy-feely upon waking for similar reasons. It’s usually best to hold off and let me initiate contact — like letting the wild and potentially-chomp-happy wild animal come to you when it feels safe.

In short: Death to mornings! All hail tea, the saviour of civilization and my floors! (I know, I know, my British is showing.)
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

No, Really. I Quit.

Everything is officially shitastic.

Ergo, I am done with all of this shit. I am done with the pile-up of essays and tests and presentations and exams. Done with insomnia and nightmares. Completely, utterly, 110% done with being made of pain. Done with doctors and receptionists and the soul-destroying time-suck that is waiting rooms. I am over being treated as a convenient solution to a problem rather than a person in my own right. I am done being insulted for having sleepless nights and painful bad days. Done with being put on the backburner because my problems aren’t nearly as pressing as the Crisis of the Week.

So I am off to find a dark hole to crawl into. I plan on laying down in it, and staying there until either the world becomes a less shitastic place, or . . . actually, I can’t even think why I would want to leave my hidey-hole.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

. . . There It Is!

So, you remember how I mentioned that I was just waiting for it? For my neuroses to wake up and decide to feed on me like a horde of starving undead?

Apparently, the cow bell has rung, and the more-intact among the undead have already sat down to dinner. In short, it’s feeding time, and My Concentration, Self-Confidence, and Sanity are on the menu. Because tomorrow, I meet with Canadian poet Sonnet L’Abbe.

But I’m not just meeting her, oh no. I’m sitting down with her to discuss my writing, as well as what I want to do with it. I will either come away from this meeting on cloud nine, or I will be bawling my face off. There really isn’t a whole lot of in-between; either I’ll be encouraged by someone who has broken into the industry I want to be part of, and done what I hope to . . . or I’ll feel like I’ve fallen short of where I want to be, where I expected to be (and I’ll probably also feel rather disappointed in myself).

And I’m trying to logic my way out of the very serious case of Squirmy Guts I’ve got going on . . . but no dice. It doesn’t matter that anything she has to say to me is going to be professional in nature; it doesn’t matter that her comments won’t be a reflection on me as a person; and the fact that anything she can tell me — about my writing, about the publishing industry, about whether or not an MFA is a good fit for me — will be helpful doesn’t make our impending meeting any less nerve-wracking.

Everyone around me is trying to pet the anxious fluffy ball of OMG that I have become, and I appreciate the effort. But this is one of those things that can’t be prepared for, which I think is the main reason I’m so hung up on this. There’s nothing I can really do except walk into this meeting with an open mind, a list of questions, and a baby sitter for my ego, who will need to stay home.

Because I really am grateful for this — I wouldn’t cancel the meeting, or not show up, or wish that I hadn’t heard of this. Getting to workshop my writing with a pro is an amazing opportunity, and I recognize that. So, really, the only thing that’s left to do for tomorrow is pull out my lucky knickers and favourite glitter — because I need all the confidence I can scrape up for this, and you have to have a lot of confidence to wear glitter without looking like a child or Halloween Land escapee. (Or a Disney princess. Or flat-out insane. Looking like a faery queen is basically the best possible outcome.)

(I’m just babbling now in an attempt to distract myself. Do me a favour and just roll with it.)

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

I Quit

So . . . Superwoman called in sick the other day, and apparently I drew the short straw because I was the poor schmuck that had to fill in for her. And I did.

But now, I am exhausted. Sadly, I still have all my regular shit to do. Which, y’know, is mostly academic-type things like readings and such, but it’s very hard to make anything resembling headway when all I want to do is sleep for about a year.

So I quit. Take me off the sub list, because I am not doing that again. It’s not worth it.

Not for what they’re paying me, anyway.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

Turn the Fucking AC Off!

Whoever decided that it was allowed to get this cold deserves to be shot. In the kneecaps. Because this? This has gone past ridiculous and now lives at the level of insulting.

Today, the temperature hit -18*C (0*F). But, once you factor in the wind chill, that drops to -31*C (-24*F).

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Because no. Just . . . no. That is too cold for life. Whoever turned the global thermostat way down can stop being a toss-pot and turn it right back up. Because, yes, it’s winter. Yes, I live in Canada. But when I am wearing four layers and then my giant wool coat (which goes down to my ankles, by the way) and I’m only just managing not to lose body parts on the walk back and forth to school, there is a problem. And it’s not with my circulatory system.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

Good Morning, Suckfest

Today is going to suck. And no, this is not one of those “you just need to change your perspective” situations. By objective standards, today is going to be legitimately awful, for multiple reasons.

And even knowing that it’s going to suck no matter what, that I’m not just blowing shit out of proportion doesn’t help. It has in other circumstances, but not today. Ditto to preparing for it ahead of time, and to well, everything else I can think of. It will simply be a shitty day, and there’s really nothing I can do to change that.

And those days happen, sometimes. It’s not a personal failing to have a shitacular day, or not be able to make something better because, well … there are some things that we can’t change. We can’t turn back time, or bring the dead back to life, or make meaning out of senselessness, or stop a paper cut from hurting. Those things are what they are, and we have to deal with them as best we can. So I guess I just have to wish for luck, and try to remember where I stashed my spare jar of determination.
~ I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.