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sink me into a stirred-up sea, something i can drown in
There is a word for today, and it is "blah."
The alarm went off at eight-fifty. I turned it off, waited for the fluid in my ears to reach some sort of pseudo-equilibrium, and reset the alarm for ten-oh-five. At five to eleven, I managed to drag my sorry ass to seventeenth-century poetry.
At microfilm, people were actually using all of the machines and clamoring for help when the fucked-up things had printing issues. They always have printing issues. They are never logical issues, never easily fixed; it's really a matter of exhausting all random tricks. They're much like copy machines, really.
Usually I'm very sweet to people at microfilm. I'm good at one-on-one interaction and I feel it the least I can do what with getting paid so well to do so little. Today I just wanted to cry by the eighth time one of the printers went psycho. My voice was not sweet, but warbly with phlegm and rawness. I had to keep asking people to repeat themselves, because I can't hear for shit. When they all finally left I sat down numbly in the soft, fraying chair and stared mutely out the large picture window behind my desk. It was raining, cold out, so much for early summer. People slipped through the narrow hidden passage between Neilson and Wright, appearing, disappearing, faces hidden beneath slick black umbrellas. My knee ached.
Still, there is something perpetually comforting about rainy, tired days. The world is soft-edged, angles less harsh, colors darker and richer. It feels okay to want to stay inside, safe and tucked away.
Tonight I am going to shower, and I am going to tackle this poetry draft. I will ride its ass and make it mine. Yes. Screw this being-sick shit.
The alarm went off at eight-fifty. I turned it off, waited for the fluid in my ears to reach some sort of pseudo-equilibrium, and reset the alarm for ten-oh-five. At five to eleven, I managed to drag my sorry ass to seventeenth-century poetry.
At microfilm, people were actually using all of the machines and clamoring for help when the fucked-up things had printing issues. They always have printing issues. They are never logical issues, never easily fixed; it's really a matter of exhausting all random tricks. They're much like copy machines, really.
Usually I'm very sweet to people at microfilm. I'm good at one-on-one interaction and I feel it the least I can do what with getting paid so well to do so little. Today I just wanted to cry by the eighth time one of the printers went psycho. My voice was not sweet, but warbly with phlegm and rawness. I had to keep asking people to repeat themselves, because I can't hear for shit. When they all finally left I sat down numbly in the soft, fraying chair and stared mutely out the large picture window behind my desk. It was raining, cold out, so much for early summer. People slipped through the narrow hidden passage between Neilson and Wright, appearing, disappearing, faces hidden beneath slick black umbrellas. My knee ached.
Still, there is something perpetually comforting about rainy, tired days. The world is soft-edged, angles less harsh, colors darker and richer. It feels okay to want to stay inside, safe and tucked away.
Tonight I am going to shower, and I am going to tackle this poetry draft. I will ride its ass and make it mine. Yes. Screw this being-sick shit.
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