Power went out at work tonight.
It actually went out on two seperate occasions. The first time for about a half an hour, and then later for a full hour.
And if you think a nursing home is creepy on a regular basis, you should really experience it with nothing but the emergency lights.
It's so quiet. Without all the air conditioners, oxygen machines, and inflating beds going, you could hear a damn pin drop.
It's also darker than you could ever imagine. If you're a person (like my boss) who believes in the supernatural lurking in the shadows (I. E. "Ghost", anyone?) you would have a panic attack. And a couple of people did.
I actually got pretty jumpy myself.
I was sitting vigil in the hall because there were no call lights, so I had to listen for my residents. After several minutes of thick silence, I decided to sing "Frankenstien Place" from the Rocky Horror Picture Show to the light up on the hill coming from the apartments.
Little did I know, my singing terrified my boss, working two halls over.
I'm not sure why she would think a spector would sing a musical from the 70s, but I guess that thought didn't cross her mind.
It did cross her mind to ball me out for singing.
July 24, 2010
July 23, 2010
Star Wars is not Inspirational
Empire
"Star Wars" Drinking Game
When Leia is Hot, we Drink
Blackout, Here I come.
Actually, the rules to this drinking game moved and changed over the course of the night.
Several varieties were
1 - drink whenever Luke acts like a bitch
2 - drink whenever Chewbacca talks
3 - drink whenever Leia and Han use a pet name with each other
4 - drink for every fatality
5 - drink when shit blows up (blasters don't count)
Basically, we drank whenever we felt like it.
It's no fun playing drinking games with Ed.
He's even more of a lightweight than I am.
He was passed out by the end of episode 5.
I feel bad about making him walk home alone.
I sometimes fear that he won't make it.
But it's summer, and he's not going to die from sleeping outdoors.
"Star Wars" Drinking Game
When Leia is Hot, we Drink
Blackout, Here I come.
Actually, the rules to this drinking game moved and changed over the course of the night.
Several varieties were
1 - drink whenever Luke acts like a bitch
2 - drink whenever Chewbacca talks
3 - drink whenever Leia and Han use a pet name with each other
4 - drink for every fatality
5 - drink when shit blows up (blasters don't count)
Basically, we drank whenever we felt like it.
It's no fun playing drinking games with Ed.
He's even more of a lightweight than I am.
He was passed out by the end of episode 5.
I feel bad about making him walk home alone.
I sometimes fear that he won't make it.
But it's summer, and he's not going to die from sleeping outdoors.
July 16, 2010
Sic
Too sick to write. Too sick to think. Fuck writing. Fuck thinking. That is all. .....Oh, and fuck being sick.
July 13, 2010
Y.D.I.T.Y
Ow.
I accidentally stepped on my pincushion.
There were only supposed to be straight pins in it, but apparently there was one needle.
It went halfway through my foot and wedged itself into one of the tendons in the arch.
Sucks, huh?
There weren't supposed to be any damn needles in that cushion, but there was. Now, who's fault is that?
The cushion itself wasn't supposed to be on the floor, but it was. Who's fault was THAT?
Mine. Mine. Always mine.
If you live by yourself, you are to blame for everything. That tends to turn an unflattering light on how often you personally fuck up.
I've started counting. It's a lot.
If the toast burns? Me.
If the plants die? Me.
If the turtle pen is left open and a Racoon falls in and panics because it doesn't know how to get out? Me.
If the grass gets too long? Me!
And, if a needle is left in the pincushion, and the cushion is left on the floor, and said needle lodges itself in your foot,
Who is the one that has to step up with a pair of pliers and get that sonofagun out?
...me.
I accidentally stepped on my pincushion.
There were only supposed to be straight pins in it, but apparently there was one needle.
It went halfway through my foot and wedged itself into one of the tendons in the arch.
Sucks, huh?
There weren't supposed to be any damn needles in that cushion, but there was. Now, who's fault is that?
The cushion itself wasn't supposed to be on the floor, but it was. Who's fault was THAT?
Mine. Mine. Always mine.
If you live by yourself, you are to blame for everything. That tends to turn an unflattering light on how often you personally fuck up.
I've started counting. It's a lot.
If the toast burns? Me.
If the plants die? Me.
If the turtle pen is left open and a Racoon falls in and panics because it doesn't know how to get out? Me.
If the grass gets too long? Me!
And, if a needle is left in the pincushion, and the cushion is left on the floor, and said needle lodges itself in your foot,
Who is the one that has to step up with a pair of pliers and get that sonofagun out?
...me.
July 11, 2010
Survival of the Shitest
Discovered by trial and much error that I don't do camping.
It may have helped if I hadn't used a knock-off of Bonaroo as my first attempt.
But the main thing is that I didn't have a damn clue what I was doing.
This statement goes for both camping AND social interaction with what turned out to be a squalid mob of drugged-out quasi-hippies.
I don't speak the drug language, so when I didn't understand what they were saying, I declined automatically.
The exception to this rule was a older, strapped band tag-along who fed me mushrooms nearly all of the last day there because I was damn bored of being
hot
sticky
bitten
and assaulted by funk music around the clock.
So, I tripped for about 12 hours, and then allowed myself to come down, cut ties, and go home.
The major problem, I think, is the fact that for all the quasi-hippie preaching about everyone "getting in touch with Nature", No one actually was.
the Generators,
amplifiers,
litter,
campfires,
and cases upon cases of beer were simply evidence to me that
even those people who claim that they are in touch with mother nature are not really touching her nicely.
It may have helped if I hadn't used a knock-off of Bonaroo as my first attempt.
But the main thing is that I didn't have a damn clue what I was doing.
This statement goes for both camping AND social interaction with what turned out to be a squalid mob of drugged-out quasi-hippies.
I don't speak the drug language, so when I didn't understand what they were saying, I declined automatically.
The exception to this rule was a older, strapped band tag-along who fed me mushrooms nearly all of the last day there because I was damn bored of being
hot
sticky
bitten
and assaulted by funk music around the clock.
So, I tripped for about 12 hours, and then allowed myself to come down, cut ties, and go home.
The major problem, I think, is the fact that for all the quasi-hippie preaching about everyone "getting in touch with Nature", No one actually was.
the Generators,
amplifiers,
litter,
campfires,
and cases upon cases of beer were simply evidence to me that
even those people who claim that they are in touch with mother nature are not really touching her nicely.
July 6, 2010
The Drugs and the Zombies Ate My Brain
I can't seem to talk correctly anymore.
Sick, huh? Every time my friends come over, I find myself looking like as ass because the words come out of my mouth mixed up.
I used to blame it on not enough practice talking.
But anymore I'm starting to think I may just be brain dead.
... And that would be PERFECTLY okay. I wouldn't very much mind recessing into a somewhat comatose state.
At least then I wouldn't have to try and explain why I can't talk.
Sick, huh? Every time my friends come over, I find myself looking like as ass because the words come out of my mouth mixed up.
I used to blame it on not enough practice talking.
But anymore I'm starting to think I may just be brain dead.
... And that would be PERFECTLY okay. I wouldn't very much mind recessing into a somewhat comatose state.
At least then I wouldn't have to try and explain why I can't talk.
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