My archive for September seems to have vanished overnight (or earlier, when I wasn’t looking), and I get nothing but error messages from Blogger when I try to change my archive’s template. ‘Tis passing strange, that. And I’m starting to think that maybe today would have been a better day to call in sick, all things considered. It occurs to me, perhaps a month too late, that I have not really been trained on how to process payments and fees for services, and the program that’s apparently supposed to help me do this has decided, no, on second thought, it doesn’t want to let me in. So I’ve got a couple thousand dollars that needs paid from four separate funds, a boss who’s out of town for three weeks and isn’t exactly helpful when he’s here, and a considerable dearth of training material available to me. And that damn archive won’t work on top of it all. Some mornings it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed.
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October knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or of shutting a book, did not end a tale. Having admitted that, he would also vow that happy endings were never difficult to find: “It was simply a matter,” he explained to April, “of finding a sunny place in a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop reading, and to be content.”
— G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was October
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Apparently I could have been the Iron Giant, were I only able to use sex to manipulate people. But, as the wise albeit fictional Fraiser Crane once quipped, men can’t use sex to get what we want. Sex is what we want. Found via my friend Sharon’s weblog, phlebotomy. |
In other news, this week’s element is argon.
“This thing, which seemed instinct with a fearsome and unnatural malignancy, was of a somewhat bloated corpulence…â€
Sweet merciful heaven. Speaking of unnatural malignancy, Wesley Crusher has a weblog. What has the world come to? Found, in a roundabout way, via squixel.net.
And, finally, I ask you: what sort of dinosaurs lurked in your backyard?
Maybe I’ll spend all day staring at the sun and trying not to squint.
Maybe I’ll make a huge color tapestry from my belly button lint.
When I’m sick of takin’ abuse, I just make up some lame excuse.
Freedom’s just seven digits away…
– “Weird Al” Yankovic, “Callin’ In Sick”
Truth be told, I am home sick today, done in by an upset stomach and probably too little sleep. My boss, who is still on his sabbatical until the end of the semester, is apparently leaving tomorrow for three weeks, so today might not have been the best of all days to call in sick. But what’s done is done. I am home and plan to stay that way. Really want to talk to me?