A Davish Type of Guy (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} eldavo) wrote,@ 2006-10-22 19:48:00 |
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Long periods of goneliness
Ugh. This job is draining me, because there's a lot to do, and only me to do it with.
Perhaps I should rephrase that, so I will not. I will instead point some things out.
Ninety-seven degrees is not low eighties. It's just not. It's not even high eighties, hell, it's not even low nineties. I must also say this: If you are a meteorologist and your forecasts are consistently five degrees cold, for crying out loud, add five degrees whenever you make a forecast. It's common freakin' sense. Hell, it's more than that, it's "You're a retard if you don't figure this out" material. That's a consistent five degrees. How about a consistent ten degrees? It's called checking a thermostat. You go outside, you look at the red line, and you go "Wow, I'm an idiot. I'm almost fifteen degrees off. I should find a different job." I'm tired of seeing "Today's high temperature: 90 degrees. Current temperature: 98 degrees." And this is from the local weather. Sigh.
Now that that's off my chest, we can talk of some comings and goings.
4: That's the number of people who promised to email or call me back in the last couple o' months, and just...didn't. For all of them, I left different varieties of messages, like voice mail, email, instant messages, etc, and for some reason, this has been a very exemplary year in the field of disliking me enough to not talk to me, but not enough to that you'll go off on me about something. I'd really just like to have a big, explosive fight (or to even be told that one needs to happen) so I can have some closure, but people are just drifting in and out without a word, without a "This is what's bothering me." Really, how can I work on the problem if people don't tell me about it? HELP ME OUT, DAWG. I gots a lot of love to give, and I needs ta give it (and I can dish out the compliments, and most of you should know that I do it at random). I'm friendly, I'm considerate, I'm interested in your day-to-day life...what's my major malfunction? Throw me a bone! Vanish forever, okay, just, y'know, let me know my breath stinks before you do.
5 is the number of four-suit spider solitaire games I've won since reinstalling Windows. Five out of five. I have a 100% win rate so far, and now I jinxed it. Four-suit spider is the game that lets you know that there is no such thing as doing so well that one random row of kings won't kill your game for you. It's all up to luck, and it's been with me so far. But no longer, for I have spoken of it. I don't care. It's been a good run. I'm proud of my five consecutive wins.
Amber is apparently interested in burying the hatchet, her mother tells me. I find this utterly hilarious, because she is the one who stopped talking to me. Now, THAT one, I understood when things went silent, because I said some things to her to keep her in Oregon. That was intentional, because there was a child involved who needed to be away from the influence of a "mother" who took every excuse to avoiding having to watch "her" child. So it'll be fun if she gets up the nerve to talk to me again. Sure, I hate being the bad guy, but there's a kid involved, one who's bound to be screwed up if she keeps running into and out of his life, and eventually has to explain to him that the reason she hasn't been around this year is because she'd rather be with her boyfriend than with her son.
Chad is totally apeshit in love with this Canadian girl he met on World of Warcraft. They've met (she was down here for about a week, and she seemed very nice), and they seemed very happy together. That is awesome. Chad needs that, the fucker. I mean, he doesn't NEED it to live (and in fact was not the romantic type, EVER), he just deserves a good relationship with someone. He's a bastard, but he's a well-meaning bastard.
Speaking of bastards, Zack has gone from being a blackjack dealer to a Sprint sales rep to being a security guard to being a pizza delivery guy to being a cab driver, all in the course of two months. Man can't hold a job, but at least he's been paying the bills. Eventually. Me, I hire prison guards, and it pays purtydern well. Think I'll keep it. But Zack has also lost, like, fifty pounds in the last three months because of his diet. He's so proud. But he needs to buy a new wardrobe, so he's incredibly broke.
Paramom beat my ass at You Don't Know Jack. Ow.
Mom is...well, there's not much to update with Mom. She lives on a mountain, has a hardworkin' hubby and precocious kids livin' with her, and I lubs the one what birthed and mothered me.
Erin is getting a birthday present, eventually. It just have to get it all wrapped and such, and have little goodies with it that won't clutter up the abode. And now I pat myself on the back for avoiding gender-specific pronouns. I rule.
I'll try to get a few Ask Doctor Daves up soon. My brain has just been hurtin' lately. If I don't post again before November 2, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAILEY. SUPER-BALLOONS FOR YOU. (Not just ordinary balloons.)
Daddy, I do NOT like this new LJ software! (Yay obscure references!)
Ugh. This job is draining me, because there's a lot to do, and only me to do it with.
Perhaps I should rephrase that, so I will not. I will instead point some things out.
Ninety-seven degrees is not low eighties. It's just not. It's not even high eighties, hell, it's not even low nineties. I must also say this: If you are a meteorologist and your forecasts are consistently five degrees cold, for crying out loud, add five degrees whenever you make a forecast. It's common freakin' sense. Hell, it's more than that, it's "You're a retard if you don't figure this out" material. That's a consistent five degrees. How about a consistent ten degrees? It's called checking a thermostat. You go outside, you look at the red line, and you go "Wow, I'm an idiot. I'm almost fifteen degrees off. I should find a different job." I'm tired of seeing "Today's high temperature: 90 degrees. Current temperature: 98 degrees." And this is from the local weather. Sigh.
Now that that's off my chest, we can talk of some comings and goings.
4: That's the number of people who promised to email or call me back in the last couple o' months, and just...didn't. For all of them, I left different varieties of messages, like voice mail, email, instant messages, etc, and for some reason, this has been a very exemplary year in the field of disliking me enough to not talk to me, but not enough to that you'll go off on me about something. I'd really just like to have a big, explosive fight (or to even be told that one needs to happen) so I can have some closure, but people are just drifting in and out without a word, without a "This is what's bothering me." Really, how can I work on the problem if people don't tell me about it? HELP ME OUT, DAWG. I gots a lot of love to give, and I needs ta give it (and I can dish out the compliments, and most of you should know that I do it at random). I'm friendly, I'm considerate, I'm interested in your day-to-day life...what's my major malfunction? Throw me a bone! Vanish forever, okay, just, y'know, let me know my breath stinks before you do.
5 is the number of four-suit spider solitaire games I've won since reinstalling Windows. Five out of five. I have a 100% win rate so far, and now I jinxed it. Four-suit spider is the game that lets you know that there is no such thing as doing so well that one random row of kings won't kill your game for you. It's all up to luck, and it's been with me so far. But no longer, for I have spoken of it. I don't care. It's been a good run. I'm proud of my five consecutive wins.
Amber is apparently interested in burying the hatchet, her mother tells me. I find this utterly hilarious, because she is the one who stopped talking to me. Now, THAT one, I understood when things went silent, because I said some things to her to keep her in Oregon. That was intentional, because there was a child involved who needed to be away from the influence of a "mother" who took every excuse to avoiding having to watch "her" child. So it'll be fun if she gets up the nerve to talk to me again. Sure, I hate being the bad guy, but there's a kid involved, one who's bound to be screwed up if she keeps running into and out of his life, and eventually has to explain to him that the reason she hasn't been around this year is because she'd rather be with her boyfriend than with her son.
Chad is totally apeshit in love with this Canadian girl he met on World of Warcraft. They've met (she was down here for about a week, and she seemed very nice), and they seemed very happy together. That is awesome. Chad needs that, the fucker. I mean, he doesn't NEED it to live (and in fact was not the romantic type, EVER), he just deserves a good relationship with someone. He's a bastard, but he's a well-meaning bastard.
Speaking of bastards, Zack has gone from being a blackjack dealer to a Sprint sales rep to being a security guard to being a pizza delivery guy to being a cab driver, all in the course of two months. Man can't hold a job, but at least he's been paying the bills. Eventually. Me, I hire prison guards, and it pays purtydern well. Think I'll keep it. But Zack has also lost, like, fifty pounds in the last three months because of his diet. He's so proud. But he needs to buy a new wardrobe, so he's incredibly broke.
Paramom beat my ass at You Don't Know Jack. Ow.
Mom is...well, there's not much to update with Mom. She lives on a mountain, has a hardworkin' hubby and precocious kids livin' with her, and I lubs the one what birthed and mothered me.
Erin is getting a birthday present, eventually. It just have to get it all wrapped and such, and have little goodies with it that won't clutter up the abode. And now I pat myself on the back for avoiding gender-specific pronouns. I rule.
I'll try to get a few Ask Doctor Daves up soon. My brain has just been hurtin' lately. If I don't post again before November 2, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAILEY. SUPER-BALLOONS FOR YOU. (Not just ordinary balloons.)
Daddy, I do NOT like this new LJ software! (Yay obscure references!)
