outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- cabbage soup, not mentioned in this entry "War is Over" is one of my favorite Christmas songs. This stupid war is ruining everything. To those of you who were talking to me or around me about the movie Memento the other day, I'd like to notify you that I rented and watched it that very night. It was, indeed, an excellent movie. I also watched The Wall the other day, when I was alone, and sobbed hysterically throughout its duration. I'm starting to worry about myself. But you don't have to, because that was nearly a week ago and the feeling hasn't been back since. Seven hours and five minutes left until I can go home. There's a party tonight! Tonight, all my whole family (mostly) comes out to dinner in the North End, then stays at the Doubletree hotel for the night. It's big holiday festivities, not involving presents. So, it's low stress. However, it also happens to be my mother's birthday, and I'm going to give my yo the blanket I recently finished and washed. I told you guys I call my mother Yo, right? It's short for Yo Mama. She answers to it too. Rob spent several minutes last night bringing in gigantic presents for me. When I saw them this morning, I was scared. They're each about ten times bigger than the corresponding present I got for Rob. I fear I may have short-changed the poor lad, even though I kept buying buying buying, spending spending spending for him. He likes to remind me that it's not the *size* of the present that counts, but I think he's full of shit. He bought me a castle and I bought him socks. But Waldon, if you're reading this, I'm still excited about what you helped me pick out. I think I told you Spider Man is involved? I think that was a good choice. It seems like a good choice. I don't know though, it's a little hard to imagine. I'm out of touch with the technology. But Spidey, come on, how could I go wrong? (Jessie sheds sweater mid-entry) Jesus Christ this thing is itchy. Good thing I have this other sweatshirt here or I'd be just a giant welt in time for the party. Oh yeah. That as-yet-unreal job I spoke of has ceased to be an option, at least to me. They've decided to go with someone quite a bit more qualified. The nerve. There's still gasoline-scented foam "snow" on our telephone. My coworker gifts were a big success. A reasonable success. They enjoyed them long enough to get snow on the phone. This is a little tidbit none of you will care about. But of course I'm going to ignore that factor and tell you anyway. The satellite had a spasm the other day, shutting down some of the software over here unexpectedly. Inspection revealed that someone was using our government-assigned frequency and in essence, sending the satellite messages. As exciting and dangerous as that all sounded for the moment, it came to a crashing, anti-climactic, wah-wah-WAH end this morning when they realized it was just a test facility in Pasadena sending out data that the satellite happened to be able to read. No spies, no terrorists, no Dr. Evil preparing to send a laser beam into the U.S. Embassy. Ah well. Better luck next time. I don't know how I'm going to sit through this whole day. I still have six hours and 42 minutes. And I have to work this frickin Sunday. Dag nab that sucks. But at least I have Christmas Eve off; I really shouldn't be complaining. I really shouldn't be sneering and pouting and throwing things across the room. I should really lower my voice and calm down. I really think that the constant exposure I had to escapist, idealist novels when I was young has tainted my outlook on life and left me with a debilitating handicap when it comes to dealing with the rest of the world. Thus, I urge you not to teach your children to read. Teach them instead how to watch television. (this disgusting moment of irony brought to you by Anne of Green Gables, A Little Princess, and the cast of Full House) Juuuuuust kidding. After all, there are also wonderful stories like the Unbearable Lightness of Being, the Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, and anything at all by Anton Chekhov. But seriously, I love Anton Chekhov. I love Russian realism. I should go back and read some of those things, and get some perspective on how bad my life *doesn't* suck. But to tell you the truth, I hated the Unbearable Lightness of Being. I kept waiting for the punchline, or anything that would make the Unbearable bearable, but there was naught. And the Sailor, I don't know how famous that book is, but it wasn't bad. As usual, when I ask myself to come up with an exemplary list of something or other, I can't. So I resorted to things in my bookshelf. I need more books. Would anyone like to introduce me to Kurt Vonnegut, quick, before he dies? I'd be most obliged. Surely some one of you is a dearly loved niece of his or something. I have the feeling I said that before. And I also have the feeling that when yo mama, comes marching in, when yo mama comes marching in, oh how I'd love to be in that number, when yo mama comes marching in. Which are two very different and distinct emotions. What happens when I come here without any inspiration? This. Right here. This whole entry. 8:45 a.m. - 2001-12-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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