Nothing Kills Creativity Faster Than A "Meaningful" Job.

So I hung out with Niebaum, this accountant dude named Los who is way too cool to be an actual accountant, and Stef on Friday night and my brain starting working again in the way that I like that I didn't know I liked so much when it worked that way all the time. I need to spend more time with people who say things like, "Fuck it. That's the way I chew."

Turns out saving the world isn't much fun. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who's surprised that I've come to that conclusion. I'm gonna blame Catholic school for this one. I guess I never got over wanting to be saintly. I know, it's not like I've got much inherent piety to start with, but at least I'm recognizing my limitations at long last. I don't think I can acquire saintliness. Acquiring saintliness is an oxymoron anyway. Duh. You'd think I would have noticed that sooner. Apparently, I'm a little stupid. In any case, I give myself credit for trying something so far out of my skill set that it's a wonder I haven't accidentally given someone the wrong baby.

I bet you've all been waiting for my story about giving someone the wrong baby. You think you're pretty funny, don't you, smart guy? Well, I don't even touch the babies if I can help it. They tend to cry whenever I'm in the nursery anyway. They're like wild dogs. They can sense my unease.

Obviously, my plan could use some work; like, I should get one.

Rather than formulating a plan, let's talk about my new boyfriend. He brings me beers while I'm writing. It's pretty cool how he's going to make me pay for them so he can get my autograph without having to ask for it. It's very serious. If my phone weren't dead from leaving it The Dubliner all weekend, I'd leave it here so I could call him and giggle and have to come back for it. He's got a decent handshake and I like how he says my name. He's not even a foreigner.

On any given Monday, anything can happen.

Dammit, I Do Not Want To Move.

I love Lakewood. I love where I live. Except I have to move on account of The Man. A new property company bought the complex and first they raised the rent $50, then they ripped out all the shady landscaping around the crystal clear pool and turned it into a scorching hot shadeless concrete murky nightmare I wouldn't dip my big toe into, then they started "remodeling" which means they just put new knobs on the cabinets, painted an accent wall and put some fake ass plastic hardwood-esque flooring down and are forcing people to move to one of them when their leases are up, and jacking up the rent $200. That's right, folks. I'm getting gentrified out of my place. This blows. I'm thinking about moving to Fair Park. If anyone has any ideas, feel free to share. I want a funky but safe neighborhood. Is that so much to ask?

Anyhow. I'm still at the hospital job, but it has been a freakin' struggle. I thought things were getting better, then my boss hung up on me twice when I called in sick. I really was sick, btw. There was some other shit too which I don't feel like talking about, but basically I expected to get fired every day for about a week, which could still happen because what the hell do I know? Like I said, I thought things were improving.

Once again, I have discovered that being completely honest is a great way to piss people off. It seriously chaps my ass when I get punished for telling the truth, especially when it's about how I feel.

"How do you feel your training went, ReadBecca?"
"I think it was terrible. I've never heard of half the things on this 90-day survey that I'm supposed to have learned. I also think management is closed off and unapproachable for questions."
"Either do the survey over in a way that makes me look good or I will fire you."
"Ok. You remind me of my mother."

Yeah, good luck with all of that, I know.

I don't have any summertime hijinks to report at this time. It's too fucking hot outside to do anything. I spend a lot of time hanging around the house in my underwear. I must have got a new neighbor because I'm picking up somebody's wifi again. I hope to have more crap to blog now that I have the means. Don't worry, you haven't missed anything, which tells me I must be on the wrong track in general because nothing really weird has happened to me lately. I don't really have any hospital stories to tell because they're all either way too sad to appear here or are priveleged health information type stuff. In any case, none of it's inherently funny and I can't even spin it to make it funny.

Wait, I just remembered I got hit on by Jerry Garcia at this country show I went to with Stefanie. Stefanie is a big fan of this dude Dale Watson, and I finally got curious enough to go. So when I showed up at the Granada ticket window, this tie-dyed t-shirt, gray-haired pony-tailed Birkenstocks guy stopped me while I was getting my money out and and gave me a free ticket. Then I danced with him a few times to be nice on account of the free ticket and all, and Jerry got shitfaced on Smirnoff Ice and started getting handsy, and then I had to duck him at the end so I could pay my tab and then I realized Jerry wasn't the only one who'd had a few so I had to spend the night in The Pleasant Room. I had a great time, but dang that handsy hippie was so far off the mark of what would turn my head it was ridiculous. Stef was also surprised to see that ReadBecca can dance. Duh. College Station leaves its mark after a decade, no matter what you do to wash it off.

Remember Tank Man.