Since life has primarily sucked lately and I don't like bitching here, I wanted to write down some funny stuff that's happened to me lately.
I learned a new phrase, that I refuse to use in public for obvious reasons: Fuck Trophy. A fuck trophy is the child of someone who's divorced or broken up with the mother or father of said child. It was taught to me by a very very very bad man.
I hope when you read this, Melissa, you lure me only to stab me. I'm too much of a pussy to commit suicide, and, life... I suck at it.
Seriously, though, what's wrong with me? I have more experience in computers than anything, yet I'm getting an associates degree to be a paralegal. I mean, what the fuck? My resume has more about coding in HTML and CSS, I've spent more time trouble shooting Linux, and I've actually been administrating a web site (soon to be bumped up to three) for several months. The thing I hate is the closer I get to finishing this, the more I love and regret it. Somehow I have to make this translate to "I'm a great critical thinker and worth my weight in gold when it comes to research." But I've no idea how. Resumes... I suck at them. Finding jobs.. I suck at that too. Usually the way I found jobs is talking to people. I mean, people like me, I have charisma or something... and we talk about the different shit I do and I'm good at, and chances are I can do, and love to do, something they need.
Alright, I can't do it. </funnystuff>
<bitch>
When I talked to the dean of the department I got the distinct impression that I was supposed to be working a month ago. He laughed when I told him I didn't have a job and hadn't found a place to intern yet. I had no idea until today what it was I was supposed to be looking for. I thought I could find a job as a file clerk, but apparently that's not entirely true. I have to have at least a part time thing under the super vision of an attorney. That information is very helpful. So he gave me a number, I called the lady and left her a message. I'm going to call again tomorrow. I'm still trying to get my resume together just in case there's a small ice cubish chance in hell I might be able to get a paying job. That would be really really nice.
In the words of the immortal Captain Malcolm Reynolds, "I do the job. Then I get paid for the job."
</bitch>
Last night I hung out with my friend Melissa and our friend Benson. When I was leaving I swear to god he was flirting with me. We'd talked about how I don't much care for men under the age of thirty, and Benson in all his wisdom told me, "Why? You're not looking for a relationship. Just fuck them." Cue Melissa, "Yeah. And call me. We'll talk about CSS." I'm considering this idea.. Anyway, so as I was leaving Benson puts his hands up, in the shape of the HTML tags <> and says "br," all sexy like, so I respond, in the same manner, "p." From there we digressed to machine code, "1-0-1-0-0-0-1." It was hot, I had to wash.
<bitch kinda>
So I got to hang out with Sharon last night, too. The wife of my friend who died. Well, they're both friends. I guess I'm depressed a bit about it. I don't feel like talking to anyone about anything. Well, that's not entirely true. I like talking to people and making them laugh, and being able to laugh myself. But still, I'm depressed. I laid in bed after today's hugely underrated success and masturbated.
</bitch kinda>
I came.
Twice.
<major bitch>
This is going to be cryptic on purpose. But there's someone on this earth. I hate him. I hate him because I think about him. I think about him because I have feelings for him. I hate having feelings for him. I just fucking hate him.. because I still think about him.
</major bitch>
Alright. My coffee cup's empty... I'm off to lobby to make such things illegal..
I learned a new phrase, that I refuse to use in public for obvious reasons: Fuck Trophy. A fuck trophy is the child of someone who's divorced or broken up with the mother or father of said child. It was taught to me by a very very very bad man.
I hope when you read this, Melissa, you lure me only to stab me. I'm too much of a pussy to commit suicide, and, life... I suck at it.
Seriously, though, what's wrong with me? I have more experience in computers than anything, yet I'm getting an associates degree to be a paralegal. I mean, what the fuck? My resume has more about coding in HTML and CSS, I've spent more time trouble shooting Linux, and I've actually been administrating a web site (soon to be bumped up to three) for several months. The thing I hate is the closer I get to finishing this, the more I love and regret it. Somehow I have to make this translate to "I'm a great critical thinker and worth my weight in gold when it comes to research." But I've no idea how. Resumes... I suck at them. Finding jobs.. I suck at that too. Usually the way I found jobs is talking to people. I mean, people like me, I have charisma or something... and we talk about the different shit I do and I'm good at, and chances are I can do, and love to do, something they need.
Alright, I can't do it. </funnystuff>
<bitch>
When I talked to the dean of the department I got the distinct impression that I was supposed to be working a month ago. He laughed when I told him I didn't have a job and hadn't found a place to intern yet. I had no idea until today what it was I was supposed to be looking for. I thought I could find a job as a file clerk, but apparently that's not entirely true. I have to have at least a part time thing under the super vision of an attorney. That information is very helpful. So he gave me a number, I called the lady and left her a message. I'm going to call again tomorrow. I'm still trying to get my resume together just in case there's a small ice cubish chance in hell I might be able to get a paying job. That would be really really nice.
In the words of the immortal Captain Malcolm Reynolds, "I do the job. Then I get paid for the job."
</bitch>
Last night I hung out with my friend Melissa and our friend Benson. When I was leaving I swear to god he was flirting with me. We'd talked about how I don't much care for men under the age of thirty, and Benson in all his wisdom told me, "Why? You're not looking for a relationship. Just fuck them." Cue Melissa, "Yeah. And call me. We'll talk about CSS." I'm considering this idea.. Anyway, so as I was leaving Benson puts his hands up, in the shape of the HTML tags <> and says "br," all sexy like, so I respond, in the same manner, "p." From there we digressed to machine code, "1-0-1-0-0-0-1." It was hot, I had to wash.
<bitch kinda>
So I got to hang out with Sharon last night, too. The wife of my friend who died. Well, they're both friends. I guess I'm depressed a bit about it. I don't feel like talking to anyone about anything. Well, that's not entirely true. I like talking to people and making them laugh, and being able to laugh myself. But still, I'm depressed. I laid in bed after today's hugely underrated success and masturbated.
</bitch kinda>
I came.
Twice.
<major bitch>
This is going to be cryptic on purpose. But there's someone on this earth. I hate him. I hate him because I think about him. I think about him because I have feelings for him. I hate having feelings for him. I just fucking hate him.. because I still think about him.
</major bitch>
Alright. My coffee cup's empty... I'm off to lobby to make such things illegal..
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