The Cliffs of Insanity

I have finally found someone who is willing to help me with grief therapy. It's been a constant runaround since last August, because South Carolina and its doctors are about as organised as a Los Angeles riot. Thankfully 8 August will be the end of that nightmare, and I will be able to start dealing with a number of issues.

Vivienne e-mailed me back with permission from Finn to make a video for his version of More Heat than Light. I wanted to do another comparison piece, this time with the Veils and Shriekback. I've also decided to do band photos for the songs, so I've spent a goodly part of the day collecting pictures for the two videos. Here's hoping all of them will like it.

I have noticed that I have a very difficult time getting my mind to work enough to write properly during the day, so I decided to dedicate the sun-portion of the day collecting the aforementioned pictures and organising book shelves. I figured that would be a good thing to do with my time, as long as I paced myself and didn't get all Virgo OCD on the tasks at hand. I worked pretty well, so I'm going to do something quite similar tomorrow. But tomorrow, I will be making the videos and, hopefully one or more Tim Roth Tutorials.

For now, though, the sun has gone down, it is cooling down because of all the rain today, and I'm beginning to feel the urge to really write. I really must draw Feeding the Tree to a close. I'm just procrastinating because of what Cadmus and Flint must do to drive the gist of the story. It has been a constant battle, and one of the main reasons why I want to kill Flint as soon as I possibly can. Cadmus already has a nemesis in Orphaeus, and he is destined to finally learn about love through his association with Gethsymonae. Flint has no proper place.

But I'm rambling now. It's time to pour some Absinthe and settle in.

They shouldn't exist. They're positioned just right to make you long for the weekend, yet realise the weekend is far enough away to make you miserable. When I was still able to work, Thursdays never failed to piss me off. Now that I'm not working, they still piss me off for my friends who must endure them. The only good thing about Thursday is Fringe. I hope I can get it tuned in. Fox is iffy at best on our digital tuning box thingie.

Okay, now that I've been all negative and shit, I guess I should write something positive. How about The Augury of Gideon? I've decided to pull characters and plots from the early days of my Vampire writing into the mix. Sydney, now named Ishtar, is going to be a main character. When I was writing her story yesterday, acook came rushing into my psyche and embodied Sydney perfectly. Before that even happened, I'd decided that Sydney/Ishtar would be an important figure in the resurrection of Faust/Kallum. It's my desire to see the two of them become very deeply involved.

Here's what I've written on Sydney/Ishtar so far. The Dhampir becomes a Vampire thanks to Dmitri. I'm cutting it for explicit sexual content and length. Click at your own risk.

( Sydney becomes Ishtar )

So there you have it. She already senses the existence of Kallum and it's only a matter of time 'til the adventurers bring out the incorruptible body of Faust only to have him wake up upon tasting Ishtar's blood.

Today was my "Let's see how many things Tin can do wrong today" at work. I hate not knowing everything immediately and without question. It's the Inner Goddess/Cat in me, I guess. Dr. Patch has the patience of Job when it comes to training new employees 'cos we're all a pack of drooling lobotomy victims when we first come to work for him.

In even better news, I had about a third of a back tooth break off. Can we say exposed nerve from hell, boys and girls. Yeah, I thought we could.

I went into work today. I was to work with Elise, the groomer, who started out as a tech, but moved to grooming when Michelle left to be a mother. I'd never worked with Elise before, but I'd heard she was a dynamo on the weekends, being keen to get in and get out quickly, so I decided to get there early so I could get ahead and make an impression on her and show her that I wasn't a slacker. She was already there when I got there, and so were Dr. Patch and Sharon. As we all walked in, Elise said, "I've already done the runs."

"Okay, cool, I'll start on room one," I said, certain I'd get rooms one and two done and over with and could probably do the barn and spend some time with Levi. I was wrong. Oh so very wrong.

Room one only had two dogs in it: Toby, the rat dog and professional mess-maker, and Raleigh, the Weimaraner pup and future Dr. Evil. From around 8:30 this morning, when the morning crew probably left, until 4 this afternoon, Raleigh had single-pawedly transformed his cage from a nice large doggie abode covered with about a half a newspaper to a toxic waste dump. He had pulverized the newspaper, creating two piles of newsprint sludge with a mixture of piss and shit. He had also done the Beer Barrel Polka in place all over his cage, spreading the toxic mixture of piss and shit from pillar to post so it could dry into a nice hell-clay that covered the majority of his cage.

I took Raleigh out to pee and poop, which he did, much to my surprise, given the state of his cage, then brought him back to a fresh cage. I'd no sooner gotten him in and given him his meds when Doc opened the door to room one and exclaimed, "What the hell happened in here?" I pointed at Raleigh. Raleigh pointed at me (well, he would have if he could have). About that time, Sharon walked by with a freshly washed Charlie in her arms. "What on Earth is that?" She asked, disbelief in her voice. "Tracy, is that you??"

Thinking about all the flatulence-driven horror through which I've put Aunt Tudi over the years, I said, "Yes, Sharon. Yes, it's me." Dr. Patch scampered from the room and returned with a bottle of XO (an odour-eliminator), which he sprayed all over the cage. It worked only in liquifying the mess, which made it harder for me to clean up.

"You're gonna have to wash that dog's feet off so that shit doesn't dry on his pads," he said. "It'll be nearly impossible to get off by tomorrow morning."

It was already dry on his feet because the waste dump was already dry in his cage. And Doc was right, it was nearly impossible to get off. I spent a good thirty minutes in grooming washing this dog's feet, then drying them. Raleigh wasn't at all receptive to being wet, nor was he very happy about the hair dryer. Just saying I got my exercise like whoa just by washing this hell-puppy's feet. I got him back to room one and put him in the clean cage with some food and water, then set to scooping out the semi-solid bits inside the toxic waste dump. Thank the Mighties for latex gloves!

Once the semi-solids were gone, I took the towel Doc gave me to throw away after use and wiped up with worst of the liquid toxicity. I then sprayed the entire cage down with the cleanser we use to clean and sterilise dog-frequented areas. I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed and SPRAYED AND SPRAYED AND SPRAYED SOME MORE. Lawdy Jeebus, my spray finger is numb from pumping that freakin' spray bottle. And, if I'd known about all the paper towels I would have used in such a brief period of time, I would have bought stocks in them ages ago. I'm sure I used at least a roll and a half.

But, get this: by the time I was halfway finished with cleaning the cage from hell, Raleigh had eaten all his food, turned over his water bowl, and had set to pulverizing his newspaper. By the time I had completed cleaning the cage from hell, Raleigh had scooped all the newspaper to the corners of his cage and was proceeding to poop, after he'd already pooped outside just 45 minutes before. Fuck on a stick! Baby Jesus on rollerblades! This dog was obviously out to get me and whomever else was unfortunate enough to have to tend to him during his boarding time at the vet's office! I let him finish his business, then transferred his demonic arse from his newly-destroyed cage to his freshly sanitised cage. I then set to cleaning the new disaster, pulled out the rancid trash bag filled with Raleigh's 700 deadly sins, sprayed some Oust to kill whatever odours might still be lingering, and turned off the lights. "Good night, asshole! G'night Toby!"

By the time I'd finished what was probably one of the worst cleaning nightmares of my entire life, Elise had done everything else except the dishes, which I promptly set to doing. Once the dishes were done, I apologised to Elise, telling her that I usually am faster than this shining example of my work ethic. She told me not to worry about it, that Doc had told her about the horror movie in which I'd been deposited, and she could smell it too. What she didn't know was that I'd had to take this hell-puppy to grooming to wash his feet on top of everything else. She was appropriately horrified and scandalised, and she told me that she knew I usually did better than this, that she wasn't worried about it all. I then asked her if she could smell me, because all I could still smell was rancid shit, and I felt like it was all over me. She told me that she couldn't, but I can still smell it. Aunt Tudi said she couldn't smell me either. I think they're all lying just to save my already bruised feelings. Dr. Patch and Sharon would tell me the truth though. Hell, Sharon was already quick to place the blame on me from the get-go. I think Aunt Tudi has been telling her stories about me and my near-legendary flatulence.

I just pity whomever opens the door to room one tomorrow morning. It's going to be ugly. Beyond ugly. Maybe I should have made a sign or something and taped it to the door. Something like "Open with caution" or "Just go home now!" or "Kill yourself now and spare yourself the indignity of the hell-puppy." Something. Anything. Because they're going to find themselves starring at a toxic mess brought about by a dog who likes to Jitterbug in his own excrement, a canine who enjoys doing the Michigan Rag whilst pissing, shitting, and probably projectile vomiting all at once. This dog is the puppy from HELL and I hope he has gone home by the time I go into work tomorrow.

That dog is a fuckerer and I don't like him one damned bit. That is all.

A picture post, mainly featuring the fact that my hair is long enough that I can let it go natural. I don't have to straighten it anymore make it look decent. So see some crinkles behind the cut, and some Aunt Tudi too!

( crinkles and 2D )

Scary, neh?

Now you won't sleep tonight. Bwwahahahahah! Seriously, though, I'm happy with the way my hair is going. I'm never cutting it again, but I'm buying tons of gel or mousse or something to accentuate the natural wave.

Oh, and PS: I applied for my old job at Arvato. Can you believe it? It was posted on Careerbuilder.com so I said "screw it" and applied. If they hire me, I'm gonna laugh my arse off. It'll bounce right off and down the road. Some arse collector will pick it up and nail it to their wall.

Klonipin is finally helping me sleep, and sleep good, with funky-ass dreams as an added benefit. The downside is that I'm seriously wibbly when I do get up. Here's a picture of my resignation letter, as well as a pic of my favourite manager Steve, and my work station.



Here's a picture of my resignation letter.


Now, what I really wanted to write was: You motherfuckers ask way too much for way too little and your human compassion was flushed down the toilet after your read that insidious brain-washing book that the company requires all managers in training to read. You're the type who'd gladly drink the Kool-Aid if it added to your store's profits for the month. You can take your cheap-ass low-grade products and shove them up your chocolate whiz-way. Oh, and that insurance I stuck around way too long to keep? It sucks just as much as you do. I pay to have them tell me that they aren't going to pay anything. You can take Cigna and swish it around in the muck in which you regularly wallow. Piss on you, piss on you store, and piss on the dregs of society that continually walk through its doors. Yours very truly, Darth Shriek.

But I didn't, as you can plainly see.

Here's a pic of my favourite manager and the one to whom I gave my resignation. He's a good guy and deserves better than being stuck at Dollar General. Here's Steve, being all cool and shit.


And here's my work station. They could have given me a stool, but they said it was against company policy. I just couldn't take it anymore. Sally Foster should end at the end of this month. When that happens, I'm going to draw unemployment and get as much assistance as possible for school. And I'm going to file for disability. Something has got to change for me. Something's gotta give. It's crazy how I'm trying to do what's considered the right thing, when I'm physically (and mentally) unable. When you can't sleep for panic attacks, you can't function at work.

I'm on my way, dammit.


So there you have it, the end of Dollar General. I'm gonna miss some of the clientele, but some of them need to crawl back under their rocks and die.

Conversation samples from my lovely night at work.

"Obama's citizenship is now in question. It's gonna finally come out that he's a Muslim."

Guess what, you dunderhead: there are millions of American citizens who are also Muslim! Islam is not a country and Muslims are not that "country's" citizenry. And Obama isn't a Muslim but, if he were, that should make no difference regarding his qualifications as president. I'd rather have a smart Muslim than a Christian idiot as a leader any day of the week, thank you very much.

"I can't believe you voted for Obama! With a middle name like Hussein, I don't see how anyone can trust him."

Hm.. Lemme guess. You think he's a Muslim because his name is Hussein. My name is Angelina, which must mean that I'm a Catholic from Sicily. Fucking idiot.

"I'm just not comfortable with a president who's affiliated with known terrorists"

You mean like the Bush family ties to the bin Laden family? Do you not remember how relatives of Osama bin Laden were swiftly spirited out of the country the day of and the day after 9/11/2001? No wonder Americans are so scoffed at by the world. It would appear that the majority of us, or at least the majority for the past eight years, has the attention span of a goldfish.

"Yay! It looks like McCain is leading Obama by several thousand votes!"

Yeah, in South Carolina. The state has a collective IQ of not quite 100 and its people are only exhibiting their mental capacity by voting the way their churches told them to, despite unemployment rates being sky high and folks losing their homes right and left. Smart. Really smart.

I'm glad I only had to work five hours tonight and that I was able to hold my tongue as much as I did. Had I been there any longer, I would have blown a freaking gasket and told all these tackheads exactly what I thought, more so than I actually did. It's so hard living in a red state, a painfully Red state.

It's heartening to see that North Carolina might actually snap out of the Red haze in which it's been fumbling for the past few decades, and go blue. Elizabeth Dole lost her seat. HA! If NC does vote blue, I'm so getting me a "Proud North Carolinian" bumper sticker.

Okay okay okay, if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all!

Here's the scenario. ::does her best Sophia Petrillo voice and says:: PICTURE IT! The parking lot of Sally Foster. 4:35 PM. A young Sicilian girl pulls into the parking lot.....okay, I'm busted! I'm not a young Sicilian girl. I'm a middle-aged American woman. But the rest is true, so this must make me a Liberal! If I were a Republican, I would have said that what I'm about to tell you took place in the Hamptons twenty-five years ago during the glory days of Ronald Reagan when there'd be no such thing as an African American running for the, GAWD FORBIYUD, office of the Presifink of the United States of Ameriduh! But I'm not that much of a dirty, rotten, stinking, underhanded, yellow-bellied liar.

So, anyway, Sally Foster, 4:35 PM... I parked my car and stepped out. As I hoisted my person onto my bad knee (do you see where this is going??), I hear a *click* and then my leg bones turned in a manner not conducive to leg-bone turning. Yeah, it hurt. But I hobbled on in and did my job to the sound of my leg bones and knee joint doing their own version of the Country Bears Jamboree right there in my pants. But, by the time 9 PM rolled around, I needed to be, in a wheelchair. I called Aunt Tudi and asked if she wanted to join me in another lovely sojourn at the Spartanburg Regional ER. Filled with glee at the prospects, she threw on her duds and, thirty minutes later, we were underway. Three hours (which ain't too shabby when it comes to the ER) and a couple of X-rays later, Dr. René Auberjoinois came in and asked how I was doing, he was doing great, but he had knees! His words. He then proceeded to tell me that I have no cartilage on the inside portion of my knee joint. It's just bone on bone grinding around in there. He put me in a knee immobilizer and on crutches for two weeks, and he ordered me off my feet (my Dollar General job) for a week. Yee... So I get to call Tami later on this morning with the smashing news that not only will I not be in this morning, but I won't be in for a week! And, when I do go back, I'll have to sit down because I can't stand on crutches for three to four hours straight, depending on when she let's me take my break! So, my job there is pretty much knackered, because I can't count the hopeful applicants to whom I gave applications just yesterday on my fingers and toes on account of I'd run out of digits. And the job at Sally Foster ends at the end of November which means I'll be totally out of work!

But. There's a reason for everything and as I was pulling out of my friendly neighbourhood Walgreens clutching all five of my pain pills (you read that right. five.) to my depressed bust at 2 AM in the morning, Aunt Tudi spotted that reason.

( and here it is, by god )

Why not have a gander at that fashion-crashing knee immobilizer?



And, with that, I'm a dead woman.

There was a dude who came into the dollar store who looked and acted just like Buffalo Bil. I had to check him out and all I wanted to do was blurt out "It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again!" But I refrained because I don't need to be reduced to one job. In honour of my encounter, let's have a video.



Now, you know how rich people have pheasant under glass? Well, we poor folks have something different. It's called, quite correctly, plastic chicken under plastic cup.



Pretty, neh?