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shitstorm
August 14, 2008
My life is such a perfectly awful nightmare of hellish workloads, looming deadlines, outrageous requests, interminable meetings, worthless & disgusting co-"workers", useless vendors, and evil bosses that I came within a hair's-breadth of quitting, driving myself home, and making like my baby brother.
Yes. That Fucking Bad.
And I got a call from my mother a couple nights ago. Yeah, she called me--so it's obvious she wanted something.
What she wanted was for me to do something for her.
Seems she promised the guy who publishes the suicide survivors group newsletter that she'd write a story about my brother and his dog.
My mom does not write.
Guess who got the assignment?
Fuck. I don't even have time to write in my journal these days, and I've got a fucking writing assignment from my mother. On a subject that I really don't know that much about. I mean, I know he had a dog, and that they went pretty much everywhere together, and that my parents have the dog now...yeah, that's about it.
Reading: "Bloodlines", by Jan Burke.
Beading: Not at the moment.
Surfing: robotic surgery. A work-related surf.
Listening: Stevie Ray Vaughan, Buddy Guy, Amy Winehouse.
At Random: click here
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