The other night, having returned home from an early (semi) evening, I turned on the T.V., hoping to catch some X-Files reruns. Because I haven't tuned in to late-night MTV in several months, I decided to see what they'd lined up for all the late-night viewers. I saw sock puppets. Specifically, two sock puppets talking into a microphone and singing songs.
What?
Apparently, this was the Sifl and Ollie Show (I don't care if I'm spelling it right). All it consists of is the sock puppets having inane conversations and parodying current and semi-forgotten musicians. Like Axle Rose.
After I'd watched an episode and a half, back-to-back, I dimly remembered someone telling me about the show in the past. A male someone. ‘Bert, I think. I remember thinking, "What could the attraction possibly be?" Now I know – utter disgust.
I am still on my quest for a new job. I need health benefits, in case something bad should happen to me (like an explosion). I also need to be in a permanent position, away from Alex. Does anyone out there want to hire a Top-Secret Receptionist in the D.C. Area?
I felt like celebrating last night, so we went out and I actually got something to eat. Sort of a fond farewell to food with far too much fat in it for my own good. We were going to watch a movie, but we got into an argument that didn't end until 9:00. Anyway, we didn't leave Dirk's house until 7:45.
Dirk's got training today and tomorrow. I think he's getting a 4% raise for taking this training and getting certification in waste disposal and –something–. I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been when he told me.
I was staying in a small cottage that faced the bay on a small island. There was a lighthouse next to the cottage, but it was only about 12 feet high. I was there to paint, I knew that, and to rest.
The sunset across the bay was glorious, streaking the water and sky with pink, purple and gold. I was frantically trying to sketch it before it disappeared, so I could capture the colors later in oil pastels. The woman I was renting the cottage from came up behind me as I was coloring the sketch in with the oil pastels. She grabbed the pastels away from me, and started applying them herself, telling me that I didn't have any idea how to use them properly. In just a moment or two, before I could take them away from her, she'd completely ruined the picture.
I yelled at her, and her daughter came in (looking surprisingly like one of Katie's cousins), trying to find out what was wrong. She brought chocolate cookies with her, and I threw them in her face. The cookies, still warm and soft, broke into soft chunks on impact with her face, and fell to the floor.
Completely useless dream.
I need something else to read. Jung's pedantic approach to writing is starting to drive me out of my mind. Ugh. He couldn't make words flow if he wrote them on little bits of paper and dropped them in a river.
Okay, I'm giving up now, having beaten this entry into submission. I've got to process training forms. I love you all.
Aside: you know, if you subscribe to the notify list, you get to hear the things I've vowed not to talk about in the journal.