sound and fury (signifying nothing)

We all want to be, but I actually am, as it turns out.

My personality (to the extent that I have one) is the fairest, no, sorry, the rarest of them all.

It is, like anything involving the mind or the Intertubes, hit-and-miss. While I find it laughable that I project an aura of self-confidence, I have to say that this is pretty spot-on:

“Personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, can be the INTJ’s Achilles heel. While they are capable of caring deeply for others (usually a select few), and are willing to spend a great deal of time and effort on a relationship, the knowledge and self-confidence that make them so successful in other areas can suddenly abandon or mislead them in interpersonal situations.

This happens in part because many INTJs do not readily grasp the social rituals; for instance, they tend to have little patience and less understanding of such things as small talk and flirtation (which most types consider half the fun of a relationship). To complicate matters, INTJs are usually extremely private people, and can often be naturally impassive as well, which makes them easy to misread and misunderstand. Perhaps the most fundamental problem, however, is that INTJs really want people to make sense.”

That’s a great punchline. It could go either way. For example, you could do this:

“How am I like school in summer?”

Or you could go a little more highbrow:

“How am I like the supposed American socio-economic structure?”

Speaking of which, it’s rebate time. I should be leery that the GovernMint (TM; they taste like bloated bureaucracy) knows enough information about me that they could just drop money in my account – the Invisible Handout.

Instead, I’m quasi-excited to be near the head of the line, even though the most exciting place it’s going is… well, I don’t actually even know yet.

I know I’m not the sunniest person. Sometimes, I’m even kind of snarky.

It’s also pretty widely known (by the three people who might give an inkling of a shit) that I don’t have any friends. I mean, the people I consider friends are hundreds to thousands of miles distant. I have no one in the immediate vicinity to just hang out with. No one to call with good news or bad news or when I’m in a jam.

I like turtles. I think because I like the idea of being able to pull in my limbs and head and just be alone. Of course, it’s lonely in the shell, but you look pretty silly complaining about the solitude when you chose that life. And I’m well aware of that fact.

But every once in a while, you stick your neck out. You take to heart that “to make a friend, you have to be one” bullshit. You engage outwardly. In my case, when you try, you nearly get hit by a speeding bus.

This is what I was thinking as I drove back from the “girls’ night” Beth planned. Well, it wasn’t a girls’ night for me, as I was the only person in my company the entire time. That’s because when I got to the theater, I didn’t see anyone else’s car when I searched the parking lot. I didn’t find anyone else when I looked through the lobby, and I couldn’t spot anyone I knew in the audience.

So I sat through about 80% of the movie, thinking fuck it, already paid for the damn thing. Apparently I still haven’t learned that I can no more watch a childbirth scene than I could tapdance on the tracks of an approaching train.

I realize that just because the plans didn’t jibe doesn’t mean there were any sinister actions on the part of anyone else. I wasn’t “ditched”. Right?

Just like another time I tried to make an effort to fit in, when I was told to be at a certain place and how to get there, yet when I arrived, I saw several cars I recognized, but no familiar faces were to be found. Later I learned that they all decided on a whim to go to the Cowboy. It’s not that they were avoiding me, it’s just that waiting five minutes until I arrived would have just been impossible in the face of potential drunken redneck – oh, I’m sorry, “cowgirl” – trim.

So I’ve been fooled twice. Shame on me.

It’s strange because just yesterday, I was thinking that since I don’t have the energy to make any of the life decisions I need to make* (buy a car? move to California? move back to Carolina? go back to school?), I need some sort of catalyst to nudge me along. Some sort of “you’ll know it when you see it” thing that would spur me into choosing a path. Because just not wanting to be here anymore isn’t enough of a reason to leave.

Well, if being actively unwanted isn’t enough of a shove, I don’t know what is. I’ll start saving money, working extra hours, just like I did when I was foolish enough to want to move out here in the first place. Once my lease is up, I’m gone like yesterday. I don’t even give a sweet shit which direction I go.

*I know exactly why. And it has fuck-all to do with lack of time.

Years ago, my mother and I went together to The Blood Connection. We both have great platelet counts. Normal range is 140(,000/mm^3) to 440, and mine usually runs around 350ish. And I’m perversely proud of this, even though I really have no call to be; it’s not like I run around thinking I kick ass because I was born in Connecticut or have German heritage.

That day all those years ago, Mom and I both donated platelets. Afterward, I felt like I was going to die. I’m not sure if it was because I was having a true reaction or because I had never done apheresis before. Although I have had a reaction after doing apheresis (on my 25th birthday, at BioLife, and my SBP was 60), it wasn’t like that. It was just more of a “I need to sit down because I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck” feeling. And I’m pretty sure I told her I’d never do it again. (Of course, after November, there’s a good chance that might be true in both our cases.)

The hit-and-run feeling returned today, after something like a hundred procedures. So of course I did the sensible thing and immediately sat down to rest until I felt better.

Just kidding, I went outside and proceeded to load a truck in 80-degree heat with something like 6000% humidity. I don’t know why I do shit like that after I’ve donated. Maybe I’m just hoping that someday I’ll have a cool passing-out story of my own to tell.

Of course, now I’m starting to wonder about the veracity of the ones I do have. For example, forever I have told people that I was adopted when I was four. Then for some reason, I dug the envelope containing my birth and adoption certificates out of my box o’ important papers, and lo and behold, I have been wrong for years. August 1987 would have made me five and a half. I guess I always thought I was younger because I remember (or maybe just think I remember) registering for school that same day.

I did go to kindergarten, so I would have registered for that at age four. I went to Foster for half a year and the only thing I remember about that period of my life was that on my birthday, Mom made me cupcakes in ice-cream cones to take to school. And on my 25th birthday (yes, same day I “almost died”… I didn’t come anywhere near dying that day, nor did I ever lose consciousness, but if I had been in a different place at a different time, I might have bought myself some Nipride or something), Jeramy got me cupcakes from Rick’s and… a box of waffle cones.

He thought I had said “cupcakes and ice-cream cones.” It’s sort of gooberish, sort of sweet. And, come to think of it (I’ve got Hingham on the brain this evening), quite a bit similar to my “next store” story.

Actually, now that it’s on my mind, I think my first kindergarten teacher was Connolly. I don’t remember who it was when I switched to L.M. Jacobs, but I had Mrs. Curtis for first grade, Mrs. Vafides for second. Then a few months of third grade (with a teacher I don’t remember, although it might have been another Connolly) before we moved South and I had that miserable wretch Mrs. Stone. Then Huffman, Audette, McRae/Glenn, Puckett/Haracy/Stone, Stefanick/Durant/Penick/Osbourne. I bet if I thought about it long enough, I could name all the teachers I had in high school. It sounds stupid, and it most assuredly is.

Holy pointless reminiscing, Batman. I want, before I forget my own damn name, to mention that today I have achieved a milestone in this pointless, self-serving wad of bloviation I call a blog.

Five thousand hits. Of course, I’ve been on WP for over three years, so it really only works out to four and a half per day (or around 22 per post), plus I’m sure that at least 75% of those visits are from bots (judging from the fact that this site has caught nearly 12,000 spam comments, it might even be higher).

I guess what I’m trying to say is, in the small, slight chance you’re 1) human 2) reading down this far, and 3) one of the few who gives a fraction of a damn about me, what I have to say, or my sorrily amusing life, thank you.

This post is for you. Have a party hat, and there are cupcakes in the kitchen. In Fayetteville.

Music: Alanis Morissette – Not the Doctor

Because one of the bots that hit this thing may in actuality turn out to be a human, and because that human may be unsure of the status of their voter registration, and because that human may not know how or what to Google (I know we’re talking about infinitesimal odds here), I offer my humble assistance in the form of Can I Vote?.

I thought my registration had transferred to Arkansas when I got my license here, but it apparently didn’t. I probably ought to change my affiliation while I’m at it, but I’m not sure if Libertarians Without Delusions is an actual party. At least Republicans have a mascot.

I know that for all my curmudgeonly griping about the media coverage of the primaries, I will probably go out and vote this November (even if I do wind up just voting for Nader* for the third genelection in a row). Even though I’ll probably be nothing more than one single cancel-out vote amongst a million. That’s a highball, by the way, because what’s the population of this state? Three mil, maybe? Oh, 2.6. Well, although that does give my ballot proportionately more weight in this state, it’s not gonna matter a whit, and I might as well not do it, and yabba-dabba-doo.

Still and all, I would love for Arkansas to redeem itself and be the only state Huckabee carries. I could dig this place again somewhat.

Music: Mott the Hoople – All the Young Dudes

*Apparently we were born in the same state as well as on the same day**. Look for a Nader/Nadir ticket sometime in 2020.

**Yes, I am unnaturally obsessed with my own birthday, as well as every other detail about myself. Aren’t I awesome?***

***Yes. And I have a nice smile. I got that one from a guy who had to have been eighty. I’m telling you, Ralph and I would have the Young White Idealistic Chick and Vision-Impaired Old Guy votes in this country sewn the hell up.

This is possibly the best piece of advice I’ve ever heard. I’ve been trying to apply it to my own sorry life, with varying degrees of success, but if I’m going to keep using it, I have to come forth and admit where it came from.

I got it off MTV. From an episode of Made. I’m not even going to attempt to justify that I was watching Made, MTV, or television in general. In fact, I thought it was a pretty good episode – this nerdy guy wanted to learn to play guitar and win his school’s Battle of the Bands. And at first it seemed like he was going to be too withdrawn to even get his lyrics out in front of his bandmates, but in the end, he rocked out with his cock out (not literally). I gotta respect that. And because I’m trying not to be afraid to suck (which, let’s face it, MTV pretty much does), I can admit my respect for not only the dude, but his coach. (Who looked remarkably like Dave Grohl in his Nirvana days, and who was the one who uttered the fateful titular phrase. You know, every time I think maybe I just suck at love because I’m gay, I think… rocker dudes.)

So it’s easier in some ways than in others. Like this evening, i was driving home thinking… something that seemed important. Like I want to know why I am the way I am instead of just not being that way anymore. That makes as much sense as a mesh liferaft, huh? I like to know how things work. And when they don’t, why. Like my brain, right now. Slightly mushy because I slept 4 hours last night and had to go to a staff meeting. After that, I figured, I should donate platelets, since I haven’t since I became re-eligible. (Tried and failed once.) And I could use the extra time, since I only have about 41 hours scheduled this week.*

So after that, I had to do some rubber rotation, because the rear right tire on my car had become so pitiful that it actually went flat while I was in Harrison last week. I had a brand-almost-new tire in my trunk, but I hate to bust those fresh ones out until I really, abso-stinkin’-lutely need them, because my luck with tires isn’t the greatest. Mind you, I just tripled on platelets with no breakfast and hadn’t yet eaten lunch, and it was about 85 degrees out, so it’s a miracle I didn’t pass out. As it was, I thought, “I’m actually glad I’m doing this, because I’m going to go home and take a nap.”

So I went down Greenwood way to get a newish tire and while I was there noticed that I had two voice messages, one of which was from Wednesday prior**, and one from just moments ago about work. I couldn’t make out the number to call back, and when I called center she wasn’t there, so I stopped back by on the way up to check it out. And got roped into working.

It wasn’t bad, and was in fact steady and successful, in stark contrast to the last time we did that drive. I didn’t have to stick anybody, which was pretty nice. (And if anyone gives me crap about it, I would remind them that they didn’t have to interview anybody, which was pretty nice for them, eh?)

And I should be sleeping, or at least making preparations to do so, but my brain is a-whirling. The shitty part about apheresis is, they put all the evil back in.

I can’t remember anything from today. My thoughts are water, my brain a sieve. The only thing I have managed to hang on to is that I absolutely love fresh pineapple. When I go to Ryans or Golden Corral or one of those places, the salad bar is my salvation from that starchy, bland food that, if humans could be fed for slaughter, would be the required diet to bulk them up***.

So imagine my delight when, during my shopping trip at Aldi, I spied fresh pineapples for only $2.99, when usually they’re closer to $5. So I grabbed one and brought it home.

And now I haven’t got the first clue what to do with it.

Of course I know that’s what Google is for. I was just illustrating my proclivity for…

Never mind.

Music: Bruce Springsteen – Pay Me My Money Down (I completely adore this album. I forget about it sometimes, then remember it, and feel like life is worth living again. I think if I listened to more music like this, instead of angry-girl music of the indie-rock persuasion****, I wouldn’t be so, as my mother says, “depressed”.)

*Although many denizens of the world might think we Americans are lazy, I would like to offer two counterpoints to this. First of all, don’t we work more? With fewer vacation hours per year? And no siestas? Also, I love that the work week is only forty hours, because that doesn’t seem like enough to me (true, I have no life), so working more is no problem, and I get sweet-ass overtime pay for it.

**No, I did not get it and not notice it until today. I used the phone once or twice this weekend, and I would have noticed the little message icon, because I hate that thing and always clear it as soon as possible.

***Apologies to Laura Kightlinger

****I don’t really listen to very much angry-girl indie-rock, but isn’t Joseph Gordon-Levitt an absolute doll?

I wouldn’t say that’s my problem, because that’s not entirely my problem, but it’s a good start. And it actually works both ways, doesn’t it?

Apparently if you can’t make it in Arkansas, you can’t make it anywhere. I wasn’t aware I was that close to the bottom. Sure, I didn’t shower for days, and I was living in relative squalor, and my car was full of broken glass. I didn’t realize this was such a sign of desperation, just par for the course. And I’d put it on a level with Oklahoma, Mississippi, and Georgia. I say that because I have no desire to prove this theory by working my way up the ladder.

What else could I say?

I apologize about eh-heh-heverything. I’ve never understood why some people absolutely refuse to say “I’m sorry”, even when things were obviously their fault. I have never had that much of a problem getting over myself.

This stretches back a long time. When I was younger, when we were pretty poor (food-stamp poor, and not the steak-and-caviar food-stamp poor, but that’s a rant for another time), I would sometimes find myself the recipient of Dollar Store Barbies.

Even now I don’t really like that vinyl-y smell that is so reminiscent of those cheap dolls. They were hollow and pitiful, and instead of feeling sorry for myself for getting them, I’d feel sorry for them. I would feel sorry for the dolls themselves for being so inferior.

That’s not much of a secret. That, along with my next-door/next-store story, is one of those childhood tales that I’ve probably told everyone I’ve ever had a conversation with (which is probably why people prefer not to talk to me).

A few minutes ago, I was sitting in my recliner, cracking open a book I bought last week. $2.99 at Hastings, used of course, but who cares? More books for me, nom nom nom.

And then I thought about the guy who wrote the book. No one I’d ever heard of, but he probably tried to make a name for himself by writing, and here he is on the clearance rack, one step away from being remaindered.

I felt sorry for the guy.

So I was reading over my last entry, because I like to double-check for errors (and because, let’s be honest, I’m really enthralled by my own words*; I suppose it’s reprehensible, but it’s really the only vanity I have). WordPress has this neat little thing where, when you mouse over a link, it gives you a preview of the page itself. Apparently it also picks up some keywords from the site and displays them directly underneath the “snapshot”.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, really. I mean, I am a fat ass, but still. This is my blog. It’s supposed to be in my corner. Dang.

*I’m certainly not the only one. Occasionally I’ll check my stats, including search terms. There’s usually some Farker’s username on that list. Actually, there are usually several interesting things on that list:

I suppose it’s a further sign of narcissism that I’m looking to see what people are looking for when they find me. Or maybe I just need a hobby.

Music: Alison Krauss & Union Station – Crazy Faith

I’m debating going to California, not with an aching in my heart, but for the forseeable future.

I haven’t drawn up a list of definitive pros and cons yet, but one of the biggest factors against it would be that, well, it’s not home.

Of course, there are reasons I don’t entirely want to go back to SC either. First and foremost is that I’d have to move back into my mother’s place while I found a job and apartment. I love my mother, of course, but I’d go stark raving mad living in that house again. Three more reasons I’m not exactly jumping East at the moment: I’m broke. The Blood Connection isn’t hiring. And SC seems to be getting on pretty well without me, as evidenced by this:

They’re changing the state highway signage. It reminds me of the palmetto and crescent sticker I had on the back windshield of my car. I say “had” because the back windshield itself was one of the Things I Lost In the Hailstorm.

Music: Ryan Adams – Night Birds

Not that I think my own wishes are powerful enough to do battle with Nature Itself, but whatever the case may be, I’m quite relieved. Maybe the Powers that Be don’t want me to die in Arkansas either. Upon further reflection, I think the prospect of doing just that was why I was so freaked out.

That, and the fact that I’d never before heard tornado warning sirens.

Now my car looks remarkably similar to the skin of an orange, and I’m missing my rear windshield. My insurance will not cover this. I had to spend half my laundry quarters at the car wash, vacuuming out bits of glass and several inches of water.

You’d think I’d be pissed. Hell, I’d think I would be pissed. But I’m surprising myself lately. I’m just – and this sounds so… I’m not even sure what it sounds like, just startlingly unlike me – glad no one was hurt, and that it wasn’t worse.

Not only that, but my refrigerator broke too, so I had to throw away everything in it. But I’m okay with it.

Instead I find myself grateful for the things that have gone right. I got three books for $12. I won a free lunch at Chic-Fil-A. Dana agreed to switch with me today.

I’m not accustomed to gratitude, which is why I’m having such a hard time describing it.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled snark.

I’m in the process of making some.

WordPress changed its layout. So I suppose it’s high time I changed my e-pants, too.

Music: Elliott Smith – Between the Bars

Nothing really caps off a hard day’s work like being told your “documentation sucks” because you forgot to NUC something.

(By the way – possibly because I have the kind of sense of humor where I find stupid shit funny – I’m eagerly anticipating the day when a donor replies “as a matter of fact, I guess I do have an underlining condition. It certainly explains why I feel the need to emphasize everything”.)

Nothing, that is, except three hours of driving through rainy BFE, Oklahoma, to retrieve your car/house keys.