People go to bars and clubs and drink things loaded with alcohol, a depressant. Entertainment at these venues typically consists of rowdy, raucus rock bands hoping to incite dancing and general mayhem.
People go to cafés and drink things loaded with caffeine, a stimulant. Entertainment at these venues, if any, typically consists more of my type of stuff, calming, acoustic music hoping to incite sitting down and listening peacefully.
CD manufacturing dude is sending me new barcode stickers. The way he says it, 13-digit barcodes are the international standard, and most (most) big retailers in the US have alrady converted. But, well, you know, some haven't. So now there's gonna be a whole complicated two-barcode thing going on with my CD. Nothing's ever simple.
The nail on my right pointer finger grows really fast. I trim it all down and then like the very next day it's all WAAAAAAAAA I AM HUGE AND INTERFERING WITH YOUR ABILITY TO TYPE!!! Damn fingernail.
The company that manufactured my CDs screwed up the UPC barcode on the back of the case. UPC barcodes, you see, have 12 digits. There are 13 digits on mine. And I can't even tell what the actual bars say, because they don't seem to scan under a barcode scanner. Neither the cute little one I got off eBay or a real professional one.
Poor baby, life is rough for you, huh? No one seems to see you, no one notices your pain--except for your friend Big Bird, but he's always off hanging out with his other friends. You wish you were him, all happy and curious and popular and bright yellow. You feel like his shadow anymore, like the only reason you exist is to amuse him. It's hard being somebody's imaginary friend. But stop trying to kill yourself--imaginary people can't kill themselves. Sorry. And hey, maybe tomorrow you'll feel better!
Someday people will see you, I promise.
Thursday was my dad's birthday, so Sunday we did our traditional thing and I took him (and my mom, plus my roomie) out to brunch. He picks the place. And when we get there, we're the only family in the building. The staff is our personal set of servants, and they outnumber us two to one. Dad suddenly gets all paranoid about the price. You know, times are tough, money is tight, we understand, don't spend too much on us...I tell him it's fine, but Mom offers to pay for half of it. Okay. I'm not having any particular money problems at the moment, other than just being a tightwad in general. How my parents' money problems are supposed to be alleviated by helping me pay for my dad's birthday brunch is beyond me.
Just because a cat sits all afternoon over at the kitchen table, and then joins you at the couch only after she's fed, doesn't mean she loves you just because you feed her, right?
I forgot what a wasteland daytime TV is. The programs aren't that bad, really - can't complain about Babylon 5 reruns and last night's Daily Show - but the commercials suck. I don't need a goddamn lawyer, I'm just sick for a couple days. I suppose I could sue someone. Who made those multivitamins so freakin' big? That's mental anguish, man.
Note to self: when asked to choose what toppings you want for your cheeseburger sub, saying "Everything" because you can't keep up with the rapid pace of the cashier rattling off possible items is unacceptable.
There's no hope for me anymore. I'm a yuppie. Friday, Saturday, Sunday: each of these days saw me with a different Starbucks beverage in hand.
Friday there were some local folkies playing there - some of 'em I knew, some I didn't. On the plus side, I got myself booked for 20 minutes on their next "Five Star Friday." Yay.
Saturday was the weekly sojourn to some giant bookstore where I can sit in the café and steal their electricity to do my homework. Occasionally I buy something to soothe my conscience, like, say, a vanilla creme thingy at the built-in Starbucks at B&N.
And Sunday was a date that careened into the Braintree B&N, and you gotta lay down cash then, huh?
Oh, and I'm blogging about being a Starbucks yuppie. That pretty much cements the cliché dealio.
