November 2nd was, well, painful. It hurts to even think about that night- a night that started with such hope and ended with complete despair.
Many democrats have been in mourning... almost as if we're recovering from a national tragedy. In the eyes of many, the reelection of Bush was a national tragedy.
The night started off well enough. I spent the afternoon hanging out at the polls with a group of local dems. We handed out fliers and chatted confidently about the election. Folks from the local dem headquarters brought us all french fries and sodas. Voters thanked us for coming out. With few exceptions, they smiled and even cheered at our Kerry signs. The only notable exception was a driveby yelling of "Kerry's a faaaaag!" Duely noted, good sir. And sadly, an excellent campaign strategy, in hindsight.
Back at my house, I had a small gathering of friends- Kerry supporters who were hungry for change. My good friend Ryan came over early. An ardent Kerry supporter, he was eager for a night of witty political banter as the results came in.
"Have they called anything? Have they called anything? MY GOD WOMAN! I've been in the car for 2 hours! HAVE THEY CALLED ANYTHING?" He screamed as he rushed through the door.
"Uhhhh, just Kentucky." I replied.
Although breathless, he still managed a heartfelt "FUCK Kentucky!"
Okay, so make that "witty political banter" as well as "drunken cursing." Really, the latter far outweighed the former.
People trickled in and we could feel the change in the air. Tonight was the night we would save America. We donned Kerry buttons and stickers. We wore patriotically colored beads around our necks. We gathered around the television for a night that was sure to change our country for the better.
Apparently, the rest of America hadn't gotten the memo.
I swore to myself that life simply couldn't go on if Florida went red. I had worked too hard. I had cared too much. The results from Florida began pouring in and things looked bleak. But Ryan wasn't phazed a bit:
"They haven't counted Broward yet! What the hell are you worried about?!? THEY HAVEN'T FUCKING COUNTED BROWARD!"
(for non-floridians, Broward county is one of the largest democratic strongholds in Florida. Ryan's faith in humanity rested with Broward county. No pressure or anything, though.)
Then the Broward results started coming in... and they clearly wouldn't be enough.
"20%! They've only counted 20% of Broward and you're worried? FUCK 20%!"
Fifteen minutes later...
"50%! They've only counted 50%! That's nothing! Broward'll pull us through!"
Fifteen minutes later:
"99%! Who gives a shit about 99%? Broward won't let us down! We can still..."
"100%. Huh. FUCK Broward."
At that point, most had left the party so they could cry in the privacy of their homes. The rest of us decided it was in our best interests to turn off the TV. The ultimate concession speech on election night is not the one made by the candidates: it's the one made by the lifelong partisans who say "Turn off CNN. Let's play some boardgames."
Ryan was curled up in a recliner, clutching a throw pillow and rocking nervously.
"What happened in Broward?" he mumbled like a child trying to cope with the loss of a favorite pet.
And much like the parents of that child, we didn't know what to tell him. How do you explain that no matter how much we all loved Broward, we had to let it go?
Probably unlike the parents of that child, I handed him a bottle of wine instead of a cheesy consolation speech.
The night wore on and we pretended that we were fine. Our eyes darted nervously, trying to avoid the streamers and balloons that decked the apartment walls. Suddenly, my celebratory decorations seemed to be mocking me and everything I stood for.
Ryan passed out on the couch that night and the next morning we set about to take down the decor. I tried to convince myself that this act was cathartic. But with every balloon I popped, I felt my soul deflating along with it.
And today, I wonder...
Has it really been nearly a month since that awful night? Has life really gone on like nothing happened? Am I really so melodramatic that I would compare popping balloons to the deflation of my soul?
The answers are yes, yes, and fuck yes.
I still haven't found a cheesy consolation speech to replace the bottle of wine. I still feel disconnected- not just from my government, but from my neighbors, my co-workers and my country. I still don't know why the fuck Broward didn't pull us through. Come ON, Broward!
But I do know this: In the spirit of Ryan Kent, who is probably in a straight jacket somewhere mumbling about a Broward recount, I must say:
FUCK November second.
11.29.2004
11.26.2004
Smooth Operator... really was an operator this time.
Lightning has struck me twice within the past week. How? How do these jackasses just flock to me?
Tonight, as I do many nights at work, I had to call our alarm monitoring company. We had a fire alarm going off, but no fire. So, this is my job. This is the important part.
Every few weeks they call and say:
"We have an alarm going off at your location."
To which I reply:
"Oh shit. Don't send the fire department. Really. I promise. There's no fire. Our alarms just have a sick sense of humor."
To which they reply:
"Too late. They've already been dispatched."
To which I reply:
"I know. Mother fuck, I know."
It's a nice little routine we have going. But someone decided to fuck that up in a nasty way for me tonight.
I called and asked to have our alarms put on "test," which is basically a preemptive strike to keep the fuzz from coming out when I know there will be false alarms. I do this often enough that the veteran operators at the monitoring company know me by voice, name, and building code. Woot.
So this new jackass starts off innocently enough. Don't they all. He asked me how my Thanksgiving was. Fine, buddy. He mentioned that I "sounded reeeeaaally young."
Note to, um, everyone. DON'T ever tell a woman (PARTICULARLY one that you've never spoken to before, or know only in a business sense) over the phone that she sounds "reeeaaally young." In your sick little world, it may seem like a compliment. It Is Not. It is the biggest "creepy porn-obsessed asshole" alert you could ever give off.
I just sighed and went on with my business. "put this on test, blah blah blah." But no. He wasn't content to have me just strongly suspicious of him. He needed me to know for sure that he was a full on, butt-dangling, turd.
He lowered his voice and said cockily "Are you a little girl who's calling about your daddy's business?"
Um. Eh? That is one weird-ass phone sex fantasy, buddy.
As is expected, I yelled at the worthless little shit and got his operator number. He's #34 in case anyone wants a heads up.
Tonight, as I do many nights at work, I had to call our alarm monitoring company. We had a fire alarm going off, but no fire. So, this is my job. This is the important part.
Every few weeks they call and say:
"We have an alarm going off at your location."
To which I reply:
"Oh shit. Don't send the fire department. Really. I promise. There's no fire. Our alarms just have a sick sense of humor."
To which they reply:
"Too late. They've already been dispatched."
To which I reply:
"I know. Mother fuck, I know."
It's a nice little routine we have going. But someone decided to fuck that up in a nasty way for me tonight.
I called and asked to have our alarms put on "test," which is basically a preemptive strike to keep the fuzz from coming out when I know there will be false alarms. I do this often enough that the veteran operators at the monitoring company know me by voice, name, and building code. Woot.
So this new jackass starts off innocently enough. Don't they all. He asked me how my Thanksgiving was. Fine, buddy. He mentioned that I "sounded reeeeaaally young."
Note to, um, everyone. DON'T ever tell a woman (PARTICULARLY one that you've never spoken to before, or know only in a business sense) over the phone that she sounds "reeeaaally young." In your sick little world, it may seem like a compliment. It Is Not. It is the biggest "creepy porn-obsessed asshole" alert you could ever give off.
I just sighed and went on with my business. "put this on test, blah blah blah." But no. He wasn't content to have me just strongly suspicious of him. He needed me to know for sure that he was a full on, butt-dangling, turd.
He lowered his voice and said cockily "Are you a little girl who's calling about your daddy's business?"
Um. Eh? That is one weird-ass phone sex fantasy, buddy.
As is expected, I yelled at the worthless little shit and got his operator number. He's #34 in case anyone wants a heads up.
11.21.2004
Smooth Operator
Oh boys. When will you learn?
Normally I get really aggravated when someone hits on me at work. First of all, I think it's just rude. When I'm at work, I can't exactly walk away from you, nor can I tell you to go fuck yourself. So I'm immediately at a disadvantage. All I can really do is paste a smile on, pretend to be busy, and hope that you'll leave quickly.
But they NEVER LEAVE QUICKLY!
Not quickly enough for my tastes, anyway.
I think that much of the problem stems from a vicious rumor that many men buy into. Often, they seem to assume that all women are inherently complicated and... compulsive liars, I suppose. If we look interested, we want them. If we look disinterested, we're being coy. And if we kick them in their shins, and call them fuckturds, then we have both turret's syndrome and unwieldy reflexes. But make no mistake. We still want them.
The other thing is that there is so much confusion on what attracts women. For instance tonight's specimen, Mr DeathMetal, apparently had decided that the following would sweep me off my feet:
- an extensive knowledge of Slayer.
- the random and seemingly forced statement that he had lots of money (which fit awkwardly, if at all, into the conversation with the poorly placed "It's a good thing you don't work in a bank. Then you'd see my account and only want me for my money.")
- the assertion, after approximately 30 seconds of artificial chit-chat that "people are stupid... but you're like a genius." Okay, I *am* a genius, but even my overly-inflated ego won't let me believe that that was sincere.
- the comment that manual labor was beneath him (might want to ask a girl's stance on union issues before trashing labor.)
- oh! and he owns a lawn care business. But don't worry. He only stops in to keep the employees in line- he makes *them* do all the work. Note: owning a "lawn care business" is 22 year old code for "I have a cell phone and a weedwhacker." Oh, and see the previous comment re: the trashing of labor.
But that part was only mildly painful. The part that really made my brain cells suicidal was the *philosophy* talk. He wanted to know what I thought about The Matrix and how it related to life. Um. Maybe he didn't get the memo, but I believe that talking-point dates back to the ancient flirtation attempts of 1999 amateur philosophers. Here in modern day civilization, we've moved on to... oh, let's say, the Spongebob movie. And, you know, how it relates to... stuff.
And once they find out my major, it's all over. I'm doomed. This captain goes down with the ship. If I had known that "aerospace engineering" was goober-guy code for "likes to talk about cars," I would have majored in puppies.
But all this work on his part was for naught. And that's what helped me get through the ordeal. The best thing about being married (aside from that whole love thing) is that you have a foolproof way to get out of an awkward situation. So when he FINALLY got to the point: "can we hang out sometime," I was able to cut him off with "well, between school and work, I barely even get to see my husband, so I don't think so."
Well, it used to be foolproof.
Apparently, the whole marriage thing just doesn't phase guys like it used to. Instead of backing away slowly like they ought to, they just try to manuever around it. "Oh yeah? Where's the ring?"
I don't wear one. So sue me!
"What's your new last name?"
I didn't change it. So bite me!
And then there's the attempt to get a financial advantage over the ball-and-chain. "what does he do for a living?" is typically followed by a see-through attempt at "well here's what I do, and here's why I make more money."
Look, I met Mr. Wankershanks before he had a job. I started dating him when he delivered pizzas and I moved in with him after he got fired from a BAR. I'm really glad that other guys keep reminding me that I'm only concerned about money because, apparently, I keep forgetting!
As I was saying earlier. Normally, I get really aggravated when someone hits on me at work. But sometimes, when the planets line up just right and the pick up lines are so consistently bad, even I can laugh and enjoy it. So thank you, Mr. DeathMetal. You have brightened my day.
But if you ever darken my doorway again, I'll feed you to the manual laborers.
Normally I get really aggravated when someone hits on me at work. First of all, I think it's just rude. When I'm at work, I can't exactly walk away from you, nor can I tell you to go fuck yourself. So I'm immediately at a disadvantage. All I can really do is paste a smile on, pretend to be busy, and hope that you'll leave quickly.
But they NEVER LEAVE QUICKLY!
Not quickly enough for my tastes, anyway.
I think that much of the problem stems from a vicious rumor that many men buy into. Often, they seem to assume that all women are inherently complicated and... compulsive liars, I suppose. If we look interested, we want them. If we look disinterested, we're being coy. And if we kick them in their shins, and call them fuckturds, then we have both turret's syndrome and unwieldy reflexes. But make no mistake. We still want them.
The other thing is that there is so much confusion on what attracts women. For instance tonight's specimen, Mr DeathMetal, apparently had decided that the following would sweep me off my feet:
- an extensive knowledge of Slayer.
- the random and seemingly forced statement that he had lots of money (which fit awkwardly, if at all, into the conversation with the poorly placed "It's a good thing you don't work in a bank. Then you'd see my account and only want me for my money.")
- the assertion, after approximately 30 seconds of artificial chit-chat that "people are stupid... but you're like a genius." Okay, I *am* a genius, but even my overly-inflated ego won't let me believe that that was sincere.
- the comment that manual labor was beneath him (might want to ask a girl's stance on union issues before trashing labor.)
- oh! and he owns a lawn care business. But don't worry. He only stops in to keep the employees in line- he makes *them* do all the work. Note: owning a "lawn care business" is 22 year old code for "I have a cell phone and a weedwhacker." Oh, and see the previous comment re: the trashing of labor.
But that part was only mildly painful. The part that really made my brain cells suicidal was the *philosophy* talk. He wanted to know what I thought about The Matrix and how it related to life. Um. Maybe he didn't get the memo, but I believe that talking-point dates back to the ancient flirtation attempts of 1999 amateur philosophers. Here in modern day civilization, we've moved on to... oh, let's say, the Spongebob movie. And, you know, how it relates to... stuff.
And once they find out my major, it's all over. I'm doomed. This captain goes down with the ship. If I had known that "aerospace engineering" was goober-guy code for "likes to talk about cars," I would have majored in puppies.
But all this work on his part was for naught. And that's what helped me get through the ordeal. The best thing about being married (aside from that whole love thing) is that you have a foolproof way to get out of an awkward situation. So when he FINALLY got to the point: "can we hang out sometime," I was able to cut him off with "well, between school and work, I barely even get to see my husband, so I don't think so."
Well, it used to be foolproof.
Apparently, the whole marriage thing just doesn't phase guys like it used to. Instead of backing away slowly like they ought to, they just try to manuever around it. "Oh yeah? Where's the ring?"
I don't wear one. So sue me!
"What's your new last name?"
I didn't change it. So bite me!
And then there's the attempt to get a financial advantage over the ball-and-chain. "what does he do for a living?" is typically followed by a see-through attempt at "well here's what I do, and here's why I make more money."
Look, I met Mr. Wankershanks before he had a job. I started dating him when he delivered pizzas and I moved in with him after he got fired from a BAR. I'm really glad that other guys keep reminding me that I'm only concerned about money because, apparently, I keep forgetting!
As I was saying earlier. Normally, I get really aggravated when someone hits on me at work. But sometimes, when the planets line up just right and the pick up lines are so consistently bad, even I can laugh and enjoy it. So thank you, Mr. DeathMetal. You have brightened my day.
But if you ever darken my doorway again, I'll feed you to the manual laborers.
11.20.2004
update- flavian's alive
Call off the candlelight vigil. Flavian is alive. Apparently, reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated, as they say, although I think he enjoys the attention. So don't be surprised if he starts claiming to be dead anytime now. He's sneaky like that.
So there have been no new run-ins with porch guy. I'll be going over there on sunday, though, so we'll see what transpires.
I plan to wear running shoes just in case.
So there have been no new run-ins with porch guy. I'll be going over there on sunday, though, so we'll see what transpires.
I plan to wear running shoes just in case.
11.19.2004
porch guy update
So I talked to Flavian. Porch guy is getting creepier by the day. New reports from eyewitnesses (aka flavian) indicate that porch guy was standing inside his apartment with the blinds open when flavian got home from work the other day. Oh- did I mention that porch guy was bare-assed naked?
Cause he was.
When Flavian noticed him staring, porch guy reportedly looked really pissed off.
I haven't talked to Flavian in 2 days.
I believe a candlelight vigil is in order. If anyone finds the remains of a 22 year old computer nerd, wrapped in a blanket that says "blanket" in binary, please contact me immediately.
Cause he was.
When Flavian noticed him staring, porch guy reportedly looked really pissed off.
I haven't talked to Flavian in 2 days.
I believe a candlelight vigil is in order. If anyone finds the remains of a 22 year old computer nerd, wrapped in a blanket that says "blanket" in binary, please contact me immediately.
11.14.2004
Flavian, save me from your neighbors.
Serial killers. They may be morbidly fascinating to watch on Court TV, but you do not want one living near you. Really. They're not good neighbors.
So I went to visit my friend Brian (aka flavian, aka guy incognito) today. He just moved to the central florida area, and found himself with a very limited apartment selection due to the recent hurricane damage. Actually, he only had one option, and that one was not particularly pretty. But what are you going to do? He took it, and moved in last week.
I pulled my car into his new apartment complex and saw a man standing on a porch near Brian's new home. New neighbors. Exciting, isn't it? He had no shirt. Quite possibly no pants, but *dear god* I wasn't about to get close enough to look. I soon realized that he was staring at me. I gave the required nod of acknowledgement, sure that this would end the staring.
It didn't.
His creepy, serial-killer eyes followed me all the way to Brian's front door. I was practically screeching when I got there.
"Did you KNOW your neighbor is a goddamned, creepy-ass, serial-killer? He will not stop leering at me! Thank god I don't sleep here, cause he would gladly kill me during it!"
"Oh- you mean 'porch guy?' Yeah, he does that."
Um. ok.
Apparently, this was a serious step-up for Brian as far as neighbors go. His last one was cheerfully nicknamed 'old prostitute guy,' and quite possibly died in his apartment, with his body rotting in there for 3 full weeks. Brian has no proof of his passing other than flimsy circumstantial evidence, but he feels confident in his morbid theory. According to him, 'old prositute guy' wasn't the type to just up and leave. He had roots in his community. Whatever, Brian.
But back to 'porch guy.' Brian informed me that when he first arrived, he too noticed 'porch guy' leering at him. Not only that, but after Brian was safely inside his apartment, 'porch guy' walked over to Brian's car, and made two slow, suspicious laps around it, before going back to his clothing-optional post.
This made me feel slightly better. At least I wasn't being singled out by our local mass-murderer. He was into Brian too. And Brian has a newer car to steal.
Looks like you'll be taking one for the team, buddy.
So I went to visit my friend Brian (aka flavian, aka guy incognito) today. He just moved to the central florida area, and found himself with a very limited apartment selection due to the recent hurricane damage. Actually, he only had one option, and that one was not particularly pretty. But what are you going to do? He took it, and moved in last week.
I pulled my car into his new apartment complex and saw a man standing on a porch near Brian's new home. New neighbors. Exciting, isn't it? He had no shirt. Quite possibly no pants, but *dear god* I wasn't about to get close enough to look. I soon realized that he was staring at me. I gave the required nod of acknowledgement, sure that this would end the staring.
It didn't.
His creepy, serial-killer eyes followed me all the way to Brian's front door. I was practically screeching when I got there.
"Did you KNOW your neighbor is a goddamned, creepy-ass, serial-killer? He will not stop leering at me! Thank god I don't sleep here, cause he would gladly kill me during it!"
"Oh- you mean 'porch guy?' Yeah, he does that."
Um. ok.
Apparently, this was a serious step-up for Brian as far as neighbors go. His last one was cheerfully nicknamed 'old prostitute guy,' and quite possibly died in his apartment, with his body rotting in there for 3 full weeks. Brian has no proof of his passing other than flimsy circumstantial evidence, but he feels confident in his morbid theory. According to him, 'old prositute guy' wasn't the type to just up and leave. He had roots in his community. Whatever, Brian.
But back to 'porch guy.' Brian informed me that when he first arrived, he too noticed 'porch guy' leering at him. Not only that, but after Brian was safely inside his apartment, 'porch guy' walked over to Brian's car, and made two slow, suspicious laps around it, before going back to his clothing-optional post.
This made me feel slightly better. At least I wasn't being singled out by our local mass-murderer. He was into Brian too. And Brian has a newer car to steal.
Looks like you'll be taking one for the team, buddy.
A note to flight mechanics professors everywhere:
When you're saying "P sub S" in class, as in, "the letter P with a subcript of S," PLEASE make sure to enunciate.
Cause as a barely-awake student, all I'm hearing is "In this problem, we need to find the correct piece of ass."
And I *hate* being forced to snicker like a 10 year old in my senior-level classes.
Cause as a barely-awake student, all I'm hearing is "In this problem, we need to find the correct piece of ass."
And I *hate* being forced to snicker like a 10 year old in my senior-level classes.
Welcome to Kerry Country
Okay, okay okay. I haven't posted anything for a while. Sorry bout that. I've mostly been stewing in bitterness, disbelief, and a bit of vegetable boullion.
But after much moping and a few suicide attempts, I've come to a conclusion. I can't force other people to see the world my way. I can't shove tolerance down the throats of those I can't tolerate. I can't change the outcome of this election.
I can, however, ignore it.
So that's the plan right now. There's a 2 bedroom apartment in central florida that is now, and will forever be, "Kerry country."
At first I wondered if this was a little too loopy even for me. Then I remembered Bush's first presidency. You know, the one that he didn't actually win. If that man could last 4 years running an entire country on delusion, then I could run my 800 square feet that way.
So the inauguration is set for Jan. 20. President Kerry is formally invited, but we likely will just have to pretend he's there. That's okay. It goes well with the theme: "Imaguration 2004!!"
But after much moping and a few suicide attempts, I've come to a conclusion. I can't force other people to see the world my way. I can't shove tolerance down the throats of those I can't tolerate. I can't change the outcome of this election.
I can, however, ignore it.
So that's the plan right now. There's a 2 bedroom apartment in central florida that is now, and will forever be, "Kerry country."
At first I wondered if this was a little too loopy even for me. Then I remembered Bush's first presidency. You know, the one that he didn't actually win. If that man could last 4 years running an entire country on delusion, then I could run my 800 square feet that way.
So the inauguration is set for Jan. 20. President Kerry is formally invited, but we likely will just have to pretend he's there. That's okay. It goes well with the theme: "Imaguration 2004!!"
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