Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The desire to wrap your hands around somebody's neck and squeeeze I've got to learn to let things go. My mood today has just sucked because of the incident with the roommate last night - first thing I saw this morning was a huge note scrawled on the white board by the door, reiterating the fact that she had to go to work at three-thirty that morning and that I was not to park in her spot. Because apparently at three-thirty in the morning, her legs aren't completely functional, and the trek of an extra few feet out to where she had to park the car would put her on the brink of death. But you know what? She needs us just as much as we need her. If we decide to leave, she has to throw the dice and get new roommates, and the odds are that said new roommates wouldn't be as supportive in things such as, oh, let's say - feeding and caring for her sweet but totally unruly dog when asked. Or jabbing her in the ass with the syringe full of her birth-control meds. I am full of Uncle Bob-like rage today, I suppose, and I don't have any safe place to vent it except right here. A twenty-year-old woman won part of the 300 million jackpot. I can't bitch about not winning, since A) I recognize the odds of my winning it were less than the odds that I will be struck in the back of the head by a fragment of an alien spacecraft that was blown up by the US government in a desperate bid to continue hiding the whole Area 51 scandal, and B) I didn't even play. I couldn't justify it to myself, I suppose. But the desire to go pick up a scratch-off ticket is really really itching at me right now. That's what lotteries sell you - the hours before the numbers are drawn where you spend and respend your winnings over and over and over again, redecorating your house, and graciously promising friends and family BMW's and mansions and trips around the world when you collect your prize. The IMF meetings are being held around the block from us, and we're expecting protesters. Cross your fingers, everybody, and repeat after me: No tear gas. Genibee does *not* want to be tear gassed. Last time these things went on, everybody who had to scuttle to work between the protestors got a good snootfull of the gas, and had to sit in their offices, gasping and drinking water, until they could breathe again. Ah, the pleasures of living in the nation's capital... 3:07 p.m. - 2002-04-18 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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