July 13, 2000.  Thursday
 
 

    MediaWhore.NET is now online.  So far, there's no real substance yet.  Nothing worthwhile there.  But it looks pretty good I think.  And really, isn't that what whores are supposed to be?  Or is that too much of a stretch?  Anyway, I was up till 3am Tuesday night finishing it, and I was surprised by the small number of problems and typos I had to fix.  I appear to be suffering from something like slight, temporary dyslexia.  I leave out certain key words, like verbs, or I switch words and letters around.  Here at work, I'm still doing this massive proofreading of lists and lists of numbers, and all the numbers are starting to look all screwy.  I just zone out, and start saying random numbers. It's sort of bizarre.  My partner and I just seem to say numbers to each other for 40 minutes straight, like we're talking in some weird code.
".28949, .39472., 49284. 39403,"
"Oh, really? Well, .84758,.937859, .39274."
"Ouch..."

Anyhow, Rodzilla arrived back in New York yesterday.  So after work I strolled on over to her school in the East Village.  The apartment all the teachers stay in is on the top floor of the building, and occupies the entire level. So naturally, the apartment is freakin huge.  If there were IKEA furniture or Pier One blue jars filled with sand, it'd be the freakin Real World apartment.  The living area and kitchen are the same room, but it's about the size of an elementary school cafeteria.  You could probably fit my whole apartment twice in just that room.  And the smallest bedroom there is probably twice the size of my room.  And they have a nice view and rooftop access.  It's a great apartment, even though it does have a certain institutional feeling to it. High ceilings and lots of space.  And it all pisses the hell out of me.  She lands a cool job, and gets a dope-ass apartment at the same time.  She never had to endure the hell of trying to find an apartment in New York, and she gets the sweetest place I've ever seen.  In Manhattan, no less.  She doesn't deserve the apartment. I deserve it. I deserve everything. I hate my life. I wish i were dead!  hmphh...

So anyway, the cool thing about her place, other than the other bajillion cool things about it, is that it's in the East Village.  A lot of cool places and bars around there.  I don't hang out in Manhattan much after work or school, but I suppose I will a lot more now. The not so cool thing about her place is that it's in the East Village, which for some inexplicable reason, is surrounded by subway lines, none of which actually go into the East Village.  It's really weird. So it's a tolerable but annoying walk to her school.  And as I said before, it's not walking someplace that really annoys me, it's walking back.

An injury update-  I recently burned the fuck outta right hand.  While carrying a bowl of ramen noodles out of the kitchen, I had one of my momentary mild vertigo attacks, and for some reason, poured most of the just-stopped-boiling liquid on my hand.  At first, it didn't hurt so much, and I was more worried about the horrible mess it made and the marks it would leave on my $25, about-to-be-thrown-out crappy coffee table.  So I let the heat soak in for a little while.  So by the time I got to the sink, I knew it was a bit more than a little ouchy-boo-boo.  There's a coupla mundane ironies here.  First, just about everything I cook somehow involves boiling water. it's my stand-by, a trusting friend, like salt. Or cheese.  Sometimes before I even know what I'm going to cook, i'll start boiling water.  So you can imagine when my shock when my good friend Boiling Water turned on me, and left me with a seering pain.  Second, the particular brand of noodles I was cooking were very time-sensitive.  If they sit around for more than three minutes, they taste all gross and mushy. So I spilled them mostly because I was in a hurry, which in turn made a mess that I had to spend 3 minutes cleaning, and another ten trying to heel my wound.  And let me tell you about the "healing."  At first, i tried my aloe plant, which I couldn't even believe was still alive.  It's been hanging on by a thread for months. It took several months before I realized that plants don't just need water, they need sun.  By then it was too late. So I think the aloe plant was mostly water by this point.  It's just trying to hang in there.  So it was absolutely worthless trying to sooth a burn. So I tried freeze-pops, which worked extremely well.  But the pain was too intense to remove the ice for more than 5 seconds, so it was either eat in agony, or not eat and feel a little better.  Anyway, to wrap this up, I now have the largest blister/boil I've ever had, on my right ring finger, right on the left side.  It's full of liquid, and it kind of feels like a bubble in a sheet of bubble wrap.  Which makes me want to pop it.  But I haven't decided yet on who will the the lucky people to witness the lancing of this boil.  Until then, I'll just amuse myself by pressing one end of it and force all the liquid to one end, almost to it's breaking point.

by the way, i describe this journal in a lot of indexes as "descriptions of the boring and embellishments of the mundane." I could probably drop the "embellishments" part.
 

©2000 ThreeMatchBreeze