Not the same

It's a sad Sunday. No accident either that it's windy as all get out. A true original left yesterday. So we're observing here at Shiny Penny headquarters. Our heads are hung low and our hearts are full. We're trying not to cry.

I will be investing my fortunes in JetBlue starting tomorrow.

Much love to you, Chicago. Now home to Sam and Silas, Lupe Fiasco, and a super super girl.

Curses!

Why must it be so difficult to shop at places called Circuit City and Best Buy?

Yes, I'm female but I probably know more about technology than you ever will so shut it.

I just can't grasp why these vast spaces that appear to hold so much stuff actually are filled with nothing that I want nor will ever need. I looked on your little website, Circuit City, and yet your store has a whole lot of nothing. I asked your staff, Best Buy, but they were dumbfounded by my recitation of serial numbers. And people wonder why people like me shop online?

I resolve to avoid the human experience from this point forward in regards to any and all matters relating to the purchase of technology. Because no one knows shit. And when I asked for a recommendation, I got bupkiss. (I didn't need your recommendation anyway; I was just being polite.)

Hey, I don't fault the folks who work at Circuit City and Best Buy. I'm sure there are some good eggs in there but they should really reconsider who they put in the direct line of fire. Your frontlines are weak.

You may have guessed I came home empty-handed, which is most unfortunate and highly annoying. I will be shopping online to complete my technology purchase but not from Circuit City nor Best Buy.

This concludes this test of human interaction. Please leave me alone now.

You know what's interesting?

Watching five-hour marathons of "Laguna Beach". Now that's interesting. Awful, but interesting.

Watching someone saw into a meatball the size of a giant baby's head. Now that's interesting.

Ordering coffee in the old-school way and sticking to the lingo:
ME: "I'd like a medium."
NOT ME: "A grande?"
ME: "No, a medium."
NOT ME: "Right, a grande?"
ME: "No, a medium."

Applying hand sanitizer after you've shook a stranger's hand. The look of horror is interesting enough to fill pages.

Arguing about the use of commas, especially when you know you're wrong but you just refuse to give in. Insulting your adversary becomes very necessary in these situations.

Seeing someone else's point of view. Case in point:
NOT ME: "I think your open lip sore is sexy."
ME: "You have drunk too much of the Kool-Aid."
NOT ME: "No really. I think bloody, crusted lesions are attractive."
ME: "I fear for you sometimes."

Picking scabs can be very interesting. Highly unrecommended, but nonetheless interesting. The texture alone is worth the pick.

These are just some of the many many interesting things I can think of off the top of my head. I'm sure your list is as provocative.

SICK III: The Anger

I can't seem to shake this sickness. It has taken over not only my body but my personality and replaced my normally sunny disposition with unbridled anger.

In addition to my ill temperment, I've become accident prone. I'm currently nursing Night of the Living Dead finger and some unexplained bruises on the left leg. If something doesn't give soon, I'm going to seriously lose it. I came real close today to screaming. A real scream, coupled with throwing of objects, ripping of cushions, and just generally tearing things up in a wholly uncivilized manner. I envisioned this scenario and it made me smile. I refrained from unleashing the wrath out of some small manner of decency I seem to be holding onto for dear life.

I don't have anything positive or uplifting or engaging to say. I don't care what you have to say either. I'm still sick after two weeks and I'm really fucking pissed off about it.

SICK II

Yes, I know. You don't want to hear it, but it's true. My insides continue to wage war on my outsides. The insides are winning. I don't appreciate this battling; I'm a pacifist. Just when I started to dive deep down into that dark, dark space where self-pity is as delightful as the Skittles rainbow, I learned this.

Do you know whose apartment that Yankees' pitcher crashed his plane into? The woman who was in a coma for some 20 days after being injured during the Macy's day parade. She was hit by a lightpole or a float or something. Can you imagine that kind of bad luck? Damn, woman. Time to get out of New York.

SICK II isn't so bad in comparison.

SICK

I think I've mentioned this documentary before called SICK. It's about a performance artist who also happens to have cystic fibrosis. He's also coincidentally into S&M. This guy is for all intents and purposes SICK. His body is ravaged by disease and self-inflicted pain. It's an amazing thing to watch, grotesque and yet entrancing. It's like he's doing this dance with his warped life and forcing the disease to feel the way he wants it to feel, which just happens to be hanging from his nipple rings naked in a gallery in New York.

Kind of puts things into perspective when you're whining about your sinus/chest infection. Boo hoo. I thought about that guy today as I moved into day two of invalidism. I don't have it so bad really. Sure I woke up at 2 a.m. with a splitting pain in my head and had to literally steam my sinuses clear for two hours. But during that time I heard the strangest things outside. One man was talking very loudly and animatedly about something but I couldn't understand him. I thought "there could be a shooting right here right now and I'd be called as a witness and the defense lawyer would get my testimony thrown out on account of my having a towel over my head and breathing in steam from a pot of boiling water." These are the kinds of things you think about at 2 a.m. when your sinuses have lain seige to half your face.

It's a sick, sick world.

All in the follow-through.

Project management has its pluses. It's all about the details and the pestering and for fuck's sake the follow-through. Yes, it's entirely thankless. No one likes to be bothered, harrassed, or otherwise annoyed. But the lack of follow-through is very telling.

Your mothers probably told you if you don't have something nice to say, shut it. Fine. Great upstanding-citizen advice. However, I doubt there's a caveat in there for 'if you don't know the answer to question posed or you're too much of a sissy to respond honestly, silence is golden.' I'd like to dispel that untruth right here.

Follow-through, people. It's a common courtesy. A basic right as Americans. Do I even have to point to history for the innumerable cases where a lack of follow-through would have avoided disaster, nay peril?

Do it. Say what you mean. Do what you say. Stop willy-nillying around and hoping you can hide in some dark cave until your pursuer loses the scent. Unless of course you are in a cheese cave, then by all means frolic to your heart's content.

This is what I have to tell you. Heed what I say. You'll be better for it in the end 'cause when the end comes. . . well, better left unsaid.

These boots were made for sex walking.

It's true. I do possess secret stores of knowledge where sex workers are concerned. I know, for instance, that there is a Whores Congress held annually in Amsterdam. I know that sex workers in Amsterdam have to pay taxes but are not entitled to benefits of any kind. (This was the case 8 years ago; things may have since changed.) I did in fact read the book "Sex Workers". I recommend it.

Why, you wonder, do I know all of these fascinating bits about sex workers? That's highly confidential and you can't be trusted.

So I stumbled across this site about sex workers the other day: http://theaphroditeproject.tv/

These Aphrodite folks have designed some zany shoes for sex workers. These platforms have video, GPS, music players, an alarm, one-button access to 911, hidden compartments, and data on the sex worker.

This is like super sex worker gear.

Unfortunately these shoes are not yet for sale because I would have a pair already even though I'm not a sex worker.