I’m feeling better today. Thanks for not pestering me about it.
Okay, I didn’t actually write any e-mail yesterday. Mainly, I stared at the e-mail and mapped out exactly what I wanted to say in my head. Today I’m going to push myself to actually translate thought into typing.
This morning, I rode into work in a car with a woman that had no less than five different scents of air freshener things hanging off her rearview mirror. I’ve never been in a car that made me feel like throwing up before this morning. Lessee....she had an orange tree, a red tree, a fuschia bunch of flowers, a rainbow, and a blue leaf. I thought my head was going to explode.
We went to Venemen’s again last night, because Aaron wanted to get some more wires. We also ended up at Ruby’s, and discussed the waitress that looked like Krisco. I was hoping that she’d be working last night, so Aaron could see her and judge for himself, but it was not to be. Instead, we had the waitress who thought 98% of British pop stars are gay.
Dirk gave her a $10 tip for a $25 bill. He even borrowed six dollars from me so he could give the waitress such a nifty tip. Mind you, he didn’t tell me what he was doing beforehand...I just happened to get a close look at the money he was giving her, and when she offered to give him change he told her not to bother. I had a few words to say about that when he got back from paying her.
Honestly, reasoning with him is like doing so with a rock. He referred to the typically low wages waitresses get without their tips ($2.50 an hour), and when I still protested, he pointed out that he was a socialist. Not with my goddamn money he’s not. Especially if he’s not going to fucking discuss it with me first. I work hard at surfing the ‘net to earn my government paycheck, and I damn well can’t see giving it away like that. So he’s paying me back. Of course.
Afterwards, we were running late, and we still had to get Dirk to work. Unfortunately, we also had to get his work clothes from his house. We got to his house at 10:44 and left at 11:00. Why? Because Dirk took a long fucking time to change, then decided to chitchat with his folks, since they were leaving in the morning. Keep in mind the fact that he was due at work at 11:00 and I was due home at the same time. Pig.
I didn’t get home until 11:30. I got yelled at. And Dirk wonders why I have no patience for him. Honestly, it sometimes seems as though he has absolutely no consideration for anyone’s problems but his own. I made sure to tell him that while I was driving him to work. He was very sorry....if it happens again, he’ll be even more sorry.
I also got an e-mail from Katie yesterday. We’re going to see a movie with her at George Mason.
You know, journal people bicker too much. Bicker, bicker, bicker.
I’m leaving you with a poem, because it’s been stuck in my head for two or three days now.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.-- “Dulce et Decorum Est,” by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)