ass-lazy tropicana of the mind
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2002-09-27
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
I know I haven't been updating as often as I should be.
I'm just...I'm under a lot of stress.
It's not the usual stress I'm under. Oh so many sites to update and so little time, places to go and people to see, blah blah blah whirlwind geek life.
No, this is more of stress where everything and anything starts getting me angry.
Hackles rise, teeth grit, cranking up Princess Superstar and Nine Inch Nails while trying to ignore the comments, ignore the people, ignore the fucking universe around me because they're all just pissing me off...
I'd make a terrible driver. One person cuts me off or just acts stupid and I'd be out there with the goddamned tire iron, bashing in windows and screaming profanity.
Hell, I feel like doing that anyway.
So, yeah, stress. In general. Lots of stress. Lots of baths with lavender bubble bath and other "relaxing aromatherapy" solutions.
And they work, most of the time, while I'm in the bath. But then I'm out of the bath and back into the world, and it all comes right back.
The little girl in the corner with the frown and the "grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" escaping from her lips. That's me. Stick figure drawing of simmering anger.
It started getting cold. My fingers ache when I'm at work now, like I'm working in the mills or the canneries or some other 19th century American Labor Life clich�. Put me in a shirtwaist and a long skirt, baby, for I am one of the oppressed.
Or more like the fact that my reptillian self can't cope with the cold. My brain fuzzes over, my hands ache, and all I want to do is lie flat on a heat rock and pretend the world doesn't exist.
I wish I had a heat rock.
This weekend will be not spent in the loving arms of the sweetheart husband, watching DVDs and passing each other junk food. No, this weekend will be spent driving to and from Birmingham and Games Day, where hundreds of teenage boys and hundreds of men who still wish they were teenage boys will congregate to play games, stare at people, and buy buy buy. A mini-convention for the product-obsessed, like San Diego Comic Con if Marvel was the only one there.
I'll be there in the silver boots and the brightly colored hair, the bright red "staff" t-shirt and the jeans, sitting behind the web team booth, arguing with someone over HTML editors and the use of flash -- I'm more than certain someone will have to start something with me, in an attempt to prove that he has better and meaner skillz than some girl.
Keyboards at dawn, baby. HTML duel, who can code the fastest and the best? Who knows their XHTML from their CSS from their javascript from their browser compatibility, baby? Can you really make your page the best it can be?
I try, but it ain't likely. Too many cooks in the pudding, too many people going "but we should do this and that and maybe this too," because we're a t-e-a-m and there is no "I" in team. There is an "I" in website, damnit, and that I is me and I'm the one who's standing here shouting in a fucking wind tunnel trying to get people to see what the hell they think they're doing.
That simmering rage came back again. Do any of you remember that scene in Popeye: The Movie where Bluto is looking at Olive Oyl and Sweetpea and they're suddenly wearing all red because he's angry?
Everyone looks so good in red here.
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