The advantage to being alone is that I can blast my music as loudly as I want. So yay for that.
I love my daily coffee: a medium nonfat iced caramel swirl latte from Dunkin Donuts. The only problem with ordering a long-labeled drink is that more often then not I return home to realize my latte is lacking in caramel swirl, and then there is much sadness in the world of LV.
I'm trying to finish The Knife Thrower. I don't like it. At all. I'm struggling. I really just want to give up and admit failure, but I have a mental block against forsaking books - even bad ones. And it might not be bad. It might be wonderful. I just don't care, and want it to go away. Then again, I keep whipping through Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, so maybe my taste in literature is just diminishing as I get older.
No job joy, although I've spent the better part of the morning drafting a letter to a contact my goddess-like aunt gave me. The problem with these letters, as I think I've said before, is that just below the surface of any nice words I write, the real message is this:
'Listen, I am smart, funny, and talented, and I will work my ass off for you. So give me a goddamn job, because my parents are seriously beginning to see me as a liability, and I hate being broke and unemployed, and if you don't give me the job I'll fill your life with misery and woe. Resume is attached. Thanks for your time!"
It's just so frustrating; I know what I'm good at, and I should be able to get a job doing it. I don't even expect a decent paycheck at this point! A discount coffee card would make me extremely happy! Or a hug. OK, that's a lie; I do want a paycheck. I'm just realistic, and would be totally content with modest compensation for my work. And I have no patience for the ass-kissing bit. Now that I have confidence, I've lost that cringing sweetness that usually kept me from saying what I was thinking. This could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what's running through my twisted mind.
I sent my dad a draft of the E-Mail, as he is perhaps the expert on making nice with strangers [my dad has a fan club. I'm only half-kidding] and I'm waiting for him to reword it into something kind and polite and charming. He has powers.
Johnny Cash kicked ass.
OK, the dog is awake and barking now. Must go deal with him. He probably wants me to rub his belly. I spend more time catering to this dog than anything else in my life.
- LV
I love my daily coffee: a medium nonfat iced caramel swirl latte from Dunkin Donuts. The only problem with ordering a long-labeled drink is that more often then not I return home to realize my latte is lacking in caramel swirl, and then there is much sadness in the world of LV.
I'm trying to finish The Knife Thrower. I don't like it. At all. I'm struggling. I really just want to give up and admit failure, but I have a mental block against forsaking books - even bad ones. And it might not be bad. It might be wonderful. I just don't care, and want it to go away. Then again, I keep whipping through Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, so maybe my taste in literature is just diminishing as I get older.
No job joy, although I've spent the better part of the morning drafting a letter to a contact my goddess-like aunt gave me. The problem with these letters, as I think I've said before, is that just below the surface of any nice words I write, the real message is this:
'Listen, I am smart, funny, and talented, and I will work my ass off for you. So give me a goddamn job, because my parents are seriously beginning to see me as a liability, and I hate being broke and unemployed, and if you don't give me the job I'll fill your life with misery and woe. Resume is attached. Thanks for your time!"
It's just so frustrating; I know what I'm good at, and I should be able to get a job doing it. I don't even expect a decent paycheck at this point! A discount coffee card would make me extremely happy! Or a hug. OK, that's a lie; I do want a paycheck. I'm just realistic, and would be totally content with modest compensation for my work. And I have no patience for the ass-kissing bit. Now that I have confidence, I've lost that cringing sweetness that usually kept me from saying what I was thinking. This could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what's running through my twisted mind.
I sent my dad a draft of the E-Mail, as he is perhaps the expert on making nice with strangers [my dad has a fan club. I'm only half-kidding] and I'm waiting for him to reword it into something kind and polite and charming. He has powers.
Johnny Cash kicked ass.
OK, the dog is awake and barking now. Must go deal with him. He probably wants me to rub his belly. I spend more time catering to this dog than anything else in my life.
- LV
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