Also, since I promised you humour at the end of last entry, here is a joke:

"Practice Safe Sex. Wear Kneepads."

...it sucks. Sue me. It's hard to write The Funny when you're crying every ten seconds.

What the FUCK is wrong with Dardan today? My images are all broken, and I can't even get to my e-mail. What the hell is going on?

With my luck, somebody's gonna review me right now. Review me and give me a righteously low grade in the design section for this completely unexpected moment when my images are all broken. I don't know why they're broken. It's not my fault.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I slept in as much as I could this morning. There were no dreams involved; I just didn't want to get up. I felt like crap and I wanted to stay in bed and snuggle with blankets for the rest of the unforeseen future. If I got hungry, I could eat my pillow.

Then Unnamed woke me up, pointed out that it was 12:30, and reminded me that I had to hang my accepted pieces in the gallery at 1:00. I got up and dashed out of the house with Dad's level and a ruler, but I didn't have time to shower. Pleasant.

Hanging everything was a pain, since I had to drill holes in the wall (while being afraid of drills) and then screw L-pieces into the holes so that the pictures could sit on them, like this:

One boy decided to be chivalrous and insisted on screwing my L-pieces into the wall. Perhaps because he hoped he could screw my L-pieces into the wall as well. Or something. (GOD, my sense of humour is really down the pot.)

The needlenose pliers slipped while screwing the pieces in, though, and gashed up the tape frame something fierce. The good frame, mind you, that I'd gotten to look nice and smooth. Now it has a big fucking gash along it, so that it looks blatantly amateur instead of vaguely neat.

FUCK YAY.

The whole process took two hours. On the ride home, I still felt as shitty as I did in the morning.

The grass is green again, and I noticed there were robins on the lawn.

I wanted desperately to shoot them. You know, pull out a rifle and go BLAM-- dead bird.

Spring my ASS. It's too cold to be spring right now.

So I came home in a shitty, murderous mood, came inside, and was immediately informed by my mother that she has lice.

WHAT?

"I got it on the plane trip to California. By the way, since you use my comb, you probably have lice too."

Then she insisted on attacking my head with a fine tooth lice comb. Sure enough, there were nits.

Shit.

I haven't had lice since I was in the sanitarium. AND I DIDN'T WANT IT AGAIN.

So fuck. Shit. And more fuck.

I sunk downstairs to fetch my bathrobe. Dad then immediately informed me that I had half-an-hour to get to work, which was just enough time to throw on a workshirt and prance out the door.

Meaning-- no shower. I have to go to a thankless, insulting, Hell-on-Earth retail job with LICE on my head, WITHOUT getting to shower even ONCE first.

I screamed about as loudly as I could that I hated the world and everyone in it, and I wanted everyone to die NOW. Then I broke down crying in the bathroom.

I don't actually remember getting to the bathroom. Just screaming and wanting to kill, and then weeping like a brand-new widow.

I've been doing that a lot today.

Unnamed was there to pat me on the shoulder and talk me into the shower anyway-- "Some hot water would do you some good." I agreed; there's nothing like a nice, hot shower to warm you up when you feel as cold as icicles...

I got about thirty seconds of hot water before the shower decided to run cold. I turned the faucet all the way up to what would normally be fatally scalding, but all I could get was freezing cold.

My head was already soapy from harsh shampoo, and I knew that when you have lice, you have to wash really well. Two shampoos, at least; no rushjobs. So I had to go through with the entire shower anyway, even though the water was cold enough to be painful.

I cried through the whole thing. When I realized that my tears were burning hot compared to the water, I cried even harder.

I considered getting out of the shower and shaving my head, just to end this lice misery sooner.

I finished up, put on a bathroom, and went to tell Mom. Broke down and cried while I was telling her.

Pulled out my work clothes. Broke down and cried again at the thought of going to work again, to put up with all those fucking customers and their fucking this and that and their belief that I am a moron and a subhuman creature no matter what I do.

Unnamed eventually got me to get going an hour late. Mom joined in with the idea that I'd go and submit my resignation.

I took my cramp pills before I went to work, just in case I got my period while I was there.

Unnamed had to talk me out of taking more than one.

He's right. I don't like being nauseous, and if I took five or six cramp pills at a time, I'd be more nauseous than I've ever been in my life.

...I suppose that if suicide seems better than going through another shift of your job, then quitting is excusable.

I couldn't do it.

I just couldn't quit on the spot. All I could do was mention to one of the shiftleaders that I wanted to quit, so that he could stop scheduling me from this point on. And since everyone was short on baggers... I worked this evening.

I hated every minute of it.

If a trigger-happy madman had dashed into the place, shot me in the head, and taken down a few customers with me, I would have considered it a blessing. A gift from God, if you will, except God doesn't deal in that sort of thing.

There was an organic bitch who got upset that I put "too much stuff" in one bag of non-edible items-- though most of it was light stuff like tissue paper and toilet paper rolls, so it was NOT heavy at all. Still, she found need to huff at me and to start rearranging the bag herself, since I obviously had no clue what I was doing, since I obviously MUST be a moron if I am working in service retail.

Then one of the cashiers, Ryan, started whipping stuff through the laser scanner too quickly, and I had to repeatedly shut off the belt in order to make sure that stuff didn't pile up at my end and get crushed-- WHICH I HATE WITH A GREAT PASSION, since I always get blamed for the results of such things, even though it's the fault of a gung-ho cashier.

Ryan bitched at me that I didn't ever need to shut the belt off at all.

I resisted the urge to fill a bag up with cans and then whip the thing into his head. Instead, I flung everything into bags as fast and hard as possible and then threw said bags into the customer's cart even harder and faster. After all, if I'm to ignore the wellbeing of the customer's order, I might as well go the whole fucking way, yes? I SHOULD GO THE WHOLE FUCKING WAY AND CRUSH CRUSH CRUSH I WANT TO KILL YOU ALL YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES I HATE EVERYTHING I HATE EVERYTHING I--

"Hey Alice, uh... would you run these frozen peas back to the cooler?"

"Oh. Sure." Pause. "You want them in the damaged cooler? They're leaking."

"Really? Shucks, hadn't noticed."

So I, er, narrowly avoided a murderous rage.

Every minute was torturous. Every second was hell. But I managed not to cry again.

...until I came home.

I've cried twice in the time it took to write this. Full-fledged breakdown weeping.

I'm very hungry, and I've tried to eat several times today, but I just can't get into anything enough to finish it. I just don't like food anymore.

I hate everything. I hate myself. I want everything and myself to shrivel away and DIE.

The world isn't cooperating very much. I think I'm successful with the me shrivelling and dying thing, though. Unnamed doesn't seem too thrilled about it.

That's understating things, really.

Now I have to go and let Mom pour the lice-killing goop on my head.

I wish I could just shave everything off, without coming across as some kind of neo-Nazi. I may hate everyone, but it's a non-doctrinal kind of hate.

That, and I know you're all waiting for some kind of an excuse to point the finger. Well, here's the deal:

Point the finger at me again, and I will break it off.

...assuming I don't just run off and cry my eyes out instead.

I hate.





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