Shoot them at the matching colors

The word on the street is that if I don't stop "shit-talking" my boss on the blog, it will come back to bite me in the ass. After all, this is the internet and information flows like water... water that isn't dammed or clogged in a drain due to balls of soapy hair stuck in the drain, I suppose. Until now, I have beeb completely unaware of this and never once considered that there was any risk in... well, anything, really. Who knew?

Spent last night up at the family cottage. I wanted to go up there to have a relaxing day during which I could read. I haven't been getting nearly enough reading done lately and it's driving me insane. I suppose it's bordering on obsession when my day is spent figuring out where I'm going to go read. Which is weird because it used to be that reading was something that was done in home, in bed. And now, it's become something public and somewhat social. For me, at least. Although I'd say that my reason for feeling the need to go somewhere and read has more to do with feeling like I have a social life. After all, if you always lock yourself up in your room to read, you look boring. And, shit, it suddenly matters what other people think of me. Like I wanna be the public intellectual or something.

And I'm dirty. It's been several days since I've showered. So I think I'm going to go do that now. Balls.

The Beauty of it is that Australia is So Fricking Far Away

Have you been sitting on the edge of your seat? Biting your nails and tearing out hair? Pacing, smoking, injecting all kinds of harmful chemicals? Put aside those filthy habits - the next installment of The Crime of it All is here.

I was disgustingly sick over the weekend, and it was, without a doubt, the best weekend I've had in a long freaking time. Maybe that's a bad thing. Forget the puking and the exhaustion and the not-being-able-to-swallow-because-the-throat-is-so-swollen. I sat around for two days reading, watching tv, and sleeping. It was brilliant. Maybe, though, it's a sign that your life sucks when getting disgusting is the best thing to happen in a while. Nevertheless, I intend to take more days like that.

And just in time, my internship at the Michigan Primary Care Association is over. No more HPSAs or MUAs or MUPs or FQHCs. No more "hello this is hayley calling from the michigan primary care association we're working with the michigan department of community health updating information regarding medically underserved area designations i had a few quick questions about the office and i was wondering if you or someone else could help me." Of course, they sort of treated me with a certain amount of dignity at this place. I was given responsibility and there wasn't a certifiably insane bitch breathing down my neck the entire time telling me that if I screwed up I'd be sent to the pit of despair.

Which reminds me: I hate my boss even more. As a matter of fact, if I was given the choice between working with this woman or with Max Miller for the next few months, I'd gladly take Max Miller as a trusty side-kick. I'd lick his... toes before I worked with that woman. Except I am working with that woman. I hope she spontaneously combusts. I hope she sits on a tack. I hope the next time she gets a strawberry double-decker ice cream cone, the ice cream part falls off the cone part and lands in Australia.

We stood beneath an amber moon

I had this thing half-written when it up and erased on me. Actually, it was the fault of my carelessness. Balls. Anyhow, I'm sick today. I say this is a crappy season and I'm sick of being sick. No pun intended.

Rumors that Salman Rushdie is sold out are unfounded. As of today there were about 210 left. After I purchased mine, there were only 208. Hurry while tickets last. Seating is already limited. I'll be way in the back, squinting to see the man. Now I have to hurry up to finish Midnight's Children. I'm only on about page 104, and I'm not holding out much hope to finish it in time. Maybe I'll skip it and just go drink green beer.

Had a conversation with Jack last night about what I ended up naming my car. Sad to say I never really made a decision. When I got the car I started calling it Dressy Bessy and old habits die hard, you know? I'm not really even that fond of the name.

My recent running efforts have been largely thwarted by late-winter slothfulness. At the end of the day, I just want to curl up and wait until it's warm out. I hate the fucking snow, man. I'm about to start pulling my hair out.

So all this college basketball is kind of exciting and everything, but I'm jonesin' for some soccer. What the mess, you know? I can't find it anywhere. My dad gets about 952 TV stations, but all the good ones you have to pay extra for. I'm moving to Brazil. Watch me pick up a street match with the kids in the favellas.

Because nothing actually happened today worth noting

I'm trying to remember the very first thing I thought when I woke up today, though it seems like a pointless task. There is no clear demarcation between sleeping and waking. Rather, the curtain is very slowly lifted and daylight seeps into dreams to slowly expose them for what they are - fantastical meanderings of the unconscious mind.

I've never been a very good sleeper. As a matter of fact, I was born with dark circles under my eyes, already behind in sleep. Oddly, I tended to sleep well as a baby. It wasn't until my mind could conceive of monsters and evil men lurking in closets and under beds that I began to fear the night.

Though my memory is obviously hazy, for at least a year's worth of nighttimes I would slip into my parents' bedroom and shake my father awake, who would then groggily shuffle into my room while I crawled in next to my mother. I have no recollection of this pattern ending, though obviously it did. As I recall, my next fit of sleeplessness came when I was seven.

This time there was a clear reason for my fear of night. Stephen King, that year, had made his novel It into a made-for-TV movie, which I had the misfortune of watching. For months, I spent nights curled in my bed, watching the door half expecting a clown's white-gloved hands to creep around the corner. This bout of nightmarish sleeplessness ended when I was sent to a psychiatrist. It strikes me as odd, 15 years down the line, that I never pinpointed as a problem the lamp that burned night-long next to my bed - a plastic clown holding a large bunch of balloons. I'm only just now getting rid of that lamp, too.

As I grew older, my poor sleep patterns returned off and on, though not usually as the result of any fear. Physical discomfort and emotional upheaval (or what amounts to upheaval to a 17-year-old) tended to be the root of my insomnia. Entering college brought new difficulties in sleeping, though (perhaps sadly) they were not usually related to late-night studying. In addition to being an insomniac, I was also a light sleeper and an early riser. Dorm parties incurred a passive-aggressive wrath the likes of which I had never experienced.

The answer to my sleepless dreams came right before I was leaving to spend six weeks in Italy. My father had read in a travel magazine about an herbal supplement that would help regulate sleep patterns (and, thus, control the effects of jet-lag). I found myself taking a half-pill every night and enjoying the most fit rest of my life. I slept soundly, nearly dead to the world.

In a strange twist of fate, the deep slumber I've experienced in recent years has had the tendency to erase any memories of dreams. I now sleep the whole night through, though with no recollection of any flights of fancy. Gone are any recollections of bizarre nighttime adventures. A pale, lifeless light takes its place.

Except, last night I know there was something, a glimmer of a dream that I am now trying to recall. I grasped it tightly as the curtain lifted, but the daylight seeped in, and my dream receded into shadows no light can break.

Note to all the Hipsters: there's no difference between Miller Lite and PBR

I may be a bit drunk right now. It's too soon to tell.

I played racquet ball today and boy did I suck. But, man alive, was it fun. My only qualm with the sport is with the walls. I don't like the idea of running into those walls and the game would be a hell of a lot better if they weren't there. But if those walls weren't there, it'd be tennis.

We got pizza at work today. I don't really know why that's so special, but we were all brought together to eat our pizza together. And we talked about the ridiculous interviews we'd done at work. One interviewer I work with had just completed an interview with an insane Vietnam Vet who was wheelchair bound. He refused to answer the questions about religion because he felt there was no god and where was was god when his friend's head got blown off and landed in his open arms. Had it been a charicature of a person, it would have been funny. But because this was an actual person, it was really disturbing. I mean, it was still pretty funny, but my laughter carried a hint of melancholy.

Today I tried to take control of my future and ended up drinking beer in Sara's room. Cheap beer, too. Is this significant? Well, anyway. I've got a picture to paint.

Jack, I'm sorry that we didn't watch Fellini. Well, I'm sorry that you wanted to watch Fellini and that we never did. Not to say that we never will. There's always Fellini. He's not going anywhere, you know what I mean? Anyway, like I said, I've got a picture to paint.

Sara: are you happy?

Yes. I am. ( this is sara)

Last night I finally watched The Bicycle Thief, the neo-realist film. And let me tell you. It was neo. It was real. It was neo-real...ism...ist. But seriously, that Bruno is one cute kid. But Italian kids in movies are usually cute (not like those American child stars who are so scary looking). But is that even the point? No. I liked the ending. It was realistic, which is, after all, the point. I won't give it away, though. I know many of you are chomping at the proverbial bit to experience the entire Vittorio De Sica catalogue (you may want to skip The Garden of the Finzi-Continis).

Tonight, I have a few more Italian screen gems at my disposal, two of which are Fellini films. I have geniously devised my movie-watching such that in no way will I be stuck watching a shitty movie... I hope (Satyricon was just freaky). Yes, this time it will be only good movies for me... not like all those other times when I purposefully set out to watch crap.

Anybody know what Raleigh's like in the spring? I may be about to find out.

Anti-associative behavior does not necessarily bar you from using our facilities

I may dislike my job. I may really dislike the people I work for/with. But sometimes, doing health research is oddly rewarding. Sometimes I talk to people who are so interesting, or so nice, or so funny that it makes me feel fine about the other jerks who won't talk to me. Sometimes I talk to people who are in such bad shape, who need help so badly, that any little thing I do for them is a blessing. I'm certain that no one else I work with actually cares very much about what they're doing. They treat each encounter like a salesman does a customer - they want you to go for what they're selling so they can get the commission and they don't want to waste their time on anyone who isn't going to go for it. I hate that aspect of my job. And maybe I'm ridiculous for caring. But at the end of the freaking day, we're taking personal information from people who are in a vulnerable position. We know more about them than they know about us. It's an unfair position, but its necessary for the information to flow faster. Is there a way around this?

Were you aware that biannual means twice a year while biennial means once every two years? I had no clue that opening the Chicago Manual of Style to a random page would prove to be so enlightening. I ought to do it more often.

Now, I've been struggling with this for a year and it's gone on entirely too long. Should I name the car Lady Bird or Dressy Bessy? Are there other options open to me? Snuffy? Scott Bakula? Parliament? Give me ideas! This namelessness cannot continue!

Because I love my Mom and because Craig CANNOT be better than me

Ma is walking approximately 28 million miles in June for a breast cancer thing. Is that clear at all? Let's try this again.

In June, my mother will participate in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. She's raising money for the thing because she is, after all, walking about 28 million miles and you sort of want something for it (don't worry - the money goes toward finding a cure; Ma wouldn't pocket your cash. Honest). Anyhow, all you breast-lovers and mastectomy-fearers ought to donate. It's a good cause. And a lot of walking. Check it out.

After weeks of getting paid to do nothing, the gods of labor have reversed their decision. If I want my promotion at work to stay in effect, I need to start doing stuff. The question, obviously, is whether or not this promotion is worth doing stuff. I'll give it a few weeks and decide then.

In other news... who am I kidding? I work a lot. Exciting things looming on the horizon, though. On March 17th (day of snake banning and green beer drinking) Salman Rushdie will speak at MSU. I'm reading Midnight's Children to prepare. The beginning few pages of The Satanic Verses, though, were so good that I really wanted to read that. However, I was talked into reading this, and I am not sorry I have made this decision.

The weekend following the St. Patrick's Day Rushdie visit, the DIA will be showing Days of Being Wild. The goal is to make it Detroit-ward in order to see that.

Otherwise, things are almost uninteresting. I experimented with rice this week. It did not go quite as planned. However, I have a few ideas that will better my rice creation. I would tell you about them now, but I don't want to ruin the fun. Let's just say that there are a lot of chicks with peas, if you catch my meaning.

Brad Jackson is a poo.
Which reminds me...

I'm staring at walls.

And screens.

I hate being cold.

I can't wait to leave Michigan. Please, please god, let me leave the tundra that is this state.