Thursday, March 18, 2004
anxious?
The Good Doctor Noyz is feeling rather tightly wound.
This is due, well to be perfectly honest, in part to last night's interuption.
But it's much more than that. Really now, I've been dealing with sexual frustration since around the age of 12. It's got a relatively simple, if short term solution ("pictures of Lilly make my life so wonderful").
I just have this general sense of. . . I don't really know. . .
I'd like to say that I'm concerned about the possible involvement of al-Queda (or however it's currently al-Spelled) in the recent bombings in Spain. The Wife's sister is currently in Spain doing one of those semester abroad things sponsored by a State University.
But I'm not.
The television's on for background noise. Rudi Bakhtiar (she's at the top of my AILF -- "Anchors I'd Like to Fuck" list) just asked some Washington Post reporter "Where do you think President Bush is going to take us next?" I swear that his answer was "straight to Hell."
I'd like to say something really profound and witty about the current American presidential campaign, about how there is a very clear choice between the two Pig, oops I mean Big Party candidates. I mean, who can't see the difference between a Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1966 and a Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1968?
[Does anyone else remember an 80's Emo Phillips routine about the Lutheran Synod? "Die heretic!"]
But I really don't give a rat's ass right now.
I'd like to be typing these words with one finger; staring cross-eyed at the screen because I spent the last eight or so hours standing in the parking lot of a normally very dead on a Wednesday bar; drinking pints of Guinness and chain smoking Camel Lights because today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick.
Yeah, but really, who cares? St. Patrick's Day, like New Year's Eve, is for amateurs. The hardcore people were standing in the parking lot, working on their fifth pint of Guinness by noon LAST Wednesday.
My gut feeling tells me that it all boils down to Fear.
Fear that some faceless bureaucrat somewhere will see my name, The Wife's name and the name of The Boy on some three paragraph one page summary report that crosses her desk daily type of of paper and for THE SECOND TIME go, "nah. . . not a good idea."
That should all change on Monday if my understanding of the process is correct. And that's a big if.
"Come Monday, it'll be alright. Come Monday, I'll be holding you tight." - Jimmy Buffett
If not, I'm completely screwed in every bad sense of the term.
Monday we go to court. Monday we clarify the status of The Boy.
Everything is still just so out of my control. It's not that it's just outside of my control, it's totally outside my realm of influence. I don't know who to call, what to say or what to wear.
I can't hardly stand it. I'm gonna throw up.
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This is due, well to be perfectly honest, in part to last night's interuption.
But it's much more than that. Really now, I've been dealing with sexual frustration since around the age of 12. It's got a relatively simple, if short term solution ("pictures of Lilly make my life so wonderful").
I just have this general sense of. . . I don't really know. . .
I'd like to say that I'm concerned about the possible involvement of al-Queda (or however it's currently al-Spelled) in the recent bombings in Spain. The Wife's sister is currently in Spain doing one of those semester abroad things sponsored by a State University.
But I'm not.
The television's on for background noise. Rudi Bakhtiar (she's at the top of my AILF -- "Anchors I'd Like to Fuck" list) just asked some Washington Post reporter "Where do you think President Bush is going to take us next?" I swear that his answer was "straight to Hell."
I'd like to say something really profound and witty about the current American presidential campaign, about how there is a very clear choice between the two Pig, oops I mean Big Party candidates. I mean, who can't see the difference between a Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1966 and a Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1968?
[Does anyone else remember an 80's Emo Phillips routine about the Lutheran Synod? "Die heretic!"]
But I really don't give a rat's ass right now.
I'd like to be typing these words with one finger; staring cross-eyed at the screen because I spent the last eight or so hours standing in the parking lot of a normally very dead on a Wednesday bar; drinking pints of Guinness and chain smoking Camel Lights because today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick.
Yeah, but really, who cares? St. Patrick's Day, like New Year's Eve, is for amateurs. The hardcore people were standing in the parking lot, working on their fifth pint of Guinness by noon LAST Wednesday.
My gut feeling tells me that it all boils down to Fear.
Fear that some faceless bureaucrat somewhere will see my name, The Wife's name and the name of The Boy on some three paragraph one page summary report that crosses her desk daily type of of paper and for THE SECOND TIME go, "nah. . . not a good idea."
That should all change on Monday if my understanding of the process is correct. And that's a big if.
"Come Monday, it'll be alright. Come Monday, I'll be holding you tight." - Jimmy Buffett
If not, I'm completely screwed in every bad sense of the term.
Monday we go to court. Monday we clarify the status of The Boy.
Everything is still just so out of my control. It's not that it's just outside of my control, it's totally outside my realm of influence. I don't know who to call, what to say or what to wear.
I can't hardly stand it. I'm gonna throw up.
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