...because I've found the preceding rants useful in distracting myself from all the other, more important, crap. At least crap that is more important to me.
Do you suppose that's a motivation for politicians in general? A lack of satisfaction in the personal life, the frustrations of surviving in the normal world, a feeling that what one wants doesn't matter allied to a wish that people would listen when one speaks...these issues could account for Hillary Clinton, Tom De Lay, the late Mr Nixon, et. al. It sure as hell could explain John Kerry and Teddy ("Splash") Kennedy.
I bless the "caller ID" feature of my phone service today. Some people -- marginally, "friends" -- have been trying to get in touch, because they want me to do something that will help them make their charmed lives even more so, in the form of latching on to a sizable inheritance. So I am avoiding them, shamelessly.
What I know and could testify to would certainly work to their favor but, as one who is struggling to keep my proverbial head above the proverbial water, I'm not terribly interested in helping them ratchet up their lifestyle right now. Especially when they feign indifference, and then start calling regularly to see if I'm ready to go to bat for them.
How mean of me. Especially at Christmas time.
Oddly enough, this morning started out rather well. I was quite certain I had a couple of new assignments to work on. Since then, the editor involved has reverted to regular form -- he's a jerk and is being one again, in other words -- and is throwing up roadblocks as fast as he can peck out email messages.
Another article has been postponed until after Christmas, because the people involved are "too busy."
Since my computer's CD drive has decided to give up -- I guess burning a dozen CDs was more than it could handle -- I'm forced to listen to the radio as I sit at my desk. I'm not hearing things that improve my mood.
As bad as the morons that hog mikes on the airwaves are, they're sweet music indeed compared to the commercials. I've mentioned the ones done by the late Chris Farley's brother that proclaim his drug-fueled death was "not his fault" and could have been avoided if Chris had used a miracle pill that some drug company has come up with; I am also tired of hearing heartfelt testimonials from people who were at Death's Door until some big-hearted drug company stepped in and "cured" them.
Hell, when I die it's going to be entirely my fault, and I'm not expecting some company with a fancy, meaningless, made-up name to hand me free pills (also with a fancy, meaningless, made-up name) to pull my ass out of the fire.
PARENTHETICAL NOTE: All bets are off if I get nined by some gangbanger. If that happens, it's his fault.
This is the point of the day when most of you would turn to your Significant Other and say, "it hasn't been a swell day," and the S.O. would at least sympathize, if not actually take steps to distract you from all the nasty stuff. I actually remember a time when I could do that.
But I can't do it now, and haven't been able to for nine interminable months.
Since I don't have "Erosive Acid Reflux Disease" (does anyone have any idea what the hell that is?), a dose of "Protonix" (also advertised heavily on the radio) isn't going to help me.
Nope. I have "Erosive ****-Dumped-Me Disease," and there's no pill that can cure that.
Don't you wish I'd stuck to politics?
3 hours ago