Keeping in line with today's trend writing about the things that piss me off, how about when I'm trying to search for the intersection of two things (such as "David Horvath" and "The Aquabats") and I have to sift through useless results due to advertising. (A site featuring USEFUL CONTENT on search item A will have USELESS CONTENT in the form of ads for topic B, or vice versa.)
I was searching for David Horvath because of Uglydolls. I read an obnoxiously punny an ad stating more or less "HAY GUYS, WE NOW HAS TEH UGLYDOLLS!!!1!", which made me think: what are these "Ugly Dolls", and why don't I know about them? So I googled them and found they're a series of cute/hip/ironic monster looking plushie dolls. The thing is, they looked awful familiar to artwork I've seen in costumes and album covers created for The Aquabats. Knowing The Aquabats have had many an artist work with them, I wondered if David was one of them, or if this were just another unfortunate art coincidence.
In general, when searching for information on an item, it sucks to have to sift through dozens of pages of ads that don't have any useful information. The reason I single out Google is, of all the useless results that frustrated me, the worst was a page where the only mention of "The Aquabats" was from two Google Ads links on the site. I would have assumed Google to have designed their system so that their search results don't pick up (useless) content from their ad boxes.
Besides that, and their frightening, unprecedented conglomeration of financial and technological power and information, I love my Gmail, Reader, and Blogger accounts!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
If You Wish To Be Remembered, Die Inside a Crawl Space
The dead squirrel(s?) smells a bit riper each day. The smell has gone from cabbagy to peppery, and it's getting to the point where I've come close to gagging. The woman who's office is across the hall planned a memorial for the squirrels, but of course it was on Monday, when I wasn't going to be at work. If it happened, I missed it. Also, part of the plan was a cross, which pissed me off. Who said these squirrels were Christan? I was thinking a nice secular wreath of peanuts or something.
Class is a bit frustrating. We've been holding workshops for the past couple weeks or more. Our workshops are run so that everyone gets a copy of everyone else's poem. We take everyone's poems home and write up comments for them. Having been told to look for the things that don't work, the first set of comments I wrote up focused only on that. I figured they'd understand that, if I didn't mention it, it must be working. When my poem was workshopped, the write ups I received had a lot of positive comments, which made me feel like quite the ass for being so harsh.
Workshops are a funny thing. I get a thrill when my poem's the target. Hours and hours are poured into a poem that I then hold out for everyone to tear it apart every which way they can. It's like field testing a prototype of a machine. You'll find the weak spots by seeing where it breaks. The key to not being heartbroken is separating myself from the work. Once I got past the notion that they're not invalidating what I have to say, just the way I've said it, I was free and in the clear. I love picking up the pieces of a poem freshly rended. It opens up opportunities I wouldn't have noticed before, and really, isn't it just like playing with Legos as a kid? Build something up, kick it all down, then build it again, better.
Still, there's something that does drive me crazy about workshops, and it's comments like “I just don't get it...” There's one student in particular who's a pro at giving such helpful information. Now, let's suppose that a good poem has a fine mix of mystery and straight talk. The straight talk will get you through the first couple readings, make you feel as if you at least understood what world the poem creates. The mystery, however, should be there enough to prompt you to read it repeatedly, to get joy out of teasing out the deeper meanings. When I first started reading poetry, I hated how it made me feel dumb for not understanding it immediately, upon the first read. It wasn't until I realized that the pros don't understand it the first time either, and that part of the joy is in the discovery, the unfolding of the mystery, that I first felt free to enjoy poetry at my own pace (and not feel dumb).
Now, I'm not going to say that my poem struck a perfect balance, but I will say that I think it made a damn good attempt. Most people either understood it right away, or came to understand it as they read it further or as it was discussed. This one student, however, could only offer “I guess it's supposed to make that kind of sense, but I think it should really have more things in it.” (Also, they didn't like my stanza structure because it didn't contribute to the meaning, and “we learned in class that the line breaks and stanzas we choose should mean something.” I understand how they seemed so arbitrary, considering they didn't understand the meaning the stanzas were to contribute to.)
When getting a piece workshopped, not all information is going to be on the mark. But, it still might speak to a problem elsewhere, so I try not to discount any of it. And, in the end it's my choice what to consider and what to forget. However, the student I'm been bitching about seems to be phoning it in. I don't think they read my poem more than twice. It's clear to me from this (and other incidences in class), that this student just isn't committed. I understand that one class may not be the most important thing in a student's life, but really, if you can't at least fake it, you're wasting your time as well as everyone else's.
The best part of all of this is, when it came time to workshop this student's poem, I didn't understand it one freaking bit. I laughed so hard at that. I guess I expected theirs to focus on the places that gave them trouble with mine. I must have read it twenty times, just to make sure it wasn't me. The problems were grammatical ambiguities (much like the pronoun soup above) that left too much up to question. I hope though that my comments went further than “I just don't understand” and were more helpful than the ones I received.
I actually planned to use this time to talk about some bigger stuff. Like, what the hell to do with my life, etc. But I think I might try to make a quick Peter Gabriel mix for the road trip I'm taking this weekend instead. I wonder if I can throw this together in the hour I have. There's so much to work with – you could easily make a PG mix in any mood. Damn.
Class is a bit frustrating. We've been holding workshops for the past couple weeks or more. Our workshops are run so that everyone gets a copy of everyone else's poem. We take everyone's poems home and write up comments for them. Having been told to look for the things that don't work, the first set of comments I wrote up focused only on that. I figured they'd understand that, if I didn't mention it, it must be working. When my poem was workshopped, the write ups I received had a lot of positive comments, which made me feel like quite the ass for being so harsh.
Workshops are a funny thing. I get a thrill when my poem's the target. Hours and hours are poured into a poem that I then hold out for everyone to tear it apart every which way they can. It's like field testing a prototype of a machine. You'll find the weak spots by seeing where it breaks. The key to not being heartbroken is separating myself from the work. Once I got past the notion that they're not invalidating what I have to say, just the way I've said it, I was free and in the clear. I love picking up the pieces of a poem freshly rended. It opens up opportunities I wouldn't have noticed before, and really, isn't it just like playing with Legos as a kid? Build something up, kick it all down, then build it again, better.
Still, there's something that does drive me crazy about workshops, and it's comments like “I just don't get it...” There's one student in particular who's a pro at giving such helpful information. Now, let's suppose that a good poem has a fine mix of mystery and straight talk. The straight talk will get you through the first couple readings, make you feel as if you at least understood what world the poem creates. The mystery, however, should be there enough to prompt you to read it repeatedly, to get joy out of teasing out the deeper meanings. When I first started reading poetry, I hated how it made me feel dumb for not understanding it immediately, upon the first read. It wasn't until I realized that the pros don't understand it the first time either, and that part of the joy is in the discovery, the unfolding of the mystery, that I first felt free to enjoy poetry at my own pace (and not feel dumb).
Now, I'm not going to say that my poem struck a perfect balance, but I will say that I think it made a damn good attempt. Most people either understood it right away, or came to understand it as they read it further or as it was discussed. This one student, however, could only offer “I guess it's supposed to make that kind of sense, but I think it should really have more things in it.” (Also, they didn't like my stanza structure because it didn't contribute to the meaning, and “we learned in class that the line breaks and stanzas we choose should mean something.” I understand how they seemed so arbitrary, considering they didn't understand the meaning the stanzas were to contribute to.)
When getting a piece workshopped, not all information is going to be on the mark. But, it still might speak to a problem elsewhere, so I try not to discount any of it. And, in the end it's my choice what to consider and what to forget. However, the student I'm been bitching about seems to be phoning it in. I don't think they read my poem more than twice. It's clear to me from this (and other incidences in class), that this student just isn't committed. I understand that one class may not be the most important thing in a student's life, but really, if you can't at least fake it, you're wasting your time as well as everyone else's.
The best part of all of this is, when it came time to workshop this student's poem, I didn't understand it one freaking bit. I laughed so hard at that. I guess I expected theirs to focus on the places that gave them trouble with mine. I must have read it twenty times, just to make sure it wasn't me. The problems were grammatical ambiguities (much like the pronoun soup above) that left too much up to question. I hope though that my comments went further than “I just don't understand” and were more helpful than the ones I received.
I actually planned to use this time to talk about some bigger stuff. Like, what the hell to do with my life, etc. But I think I might try to make a quick Peter Gabriel mix for the road trip I'm taking this weekend instead. I wonder if I can throw this together in the hour I have. There's so much to work with – you could easily make a PG mix in any mood. Damn.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Party to the Squirrel Murders
It had to be sometime last month when I heard them in my office ceiling. I wasn't sure what it was, but it definitely had feet. With little claws. Claws that would scratch against the duct work, lighting fixtures, and as time went on, attempt to lift the drop ceiling tiles. (This always made me jump, as there was usually a period of silence preceded by movement in the corner of my eye, and a loud noise.) I wasn't sure if it was of the critter or varmint variety, but everyone else seemed to think it was a squirrel, which makes sense. Most college campuses in the area are havens for a large squirrel population, and ours is no different.
My boss told me to call facilities, who would send the animal control folks they have a contract with. In the past, they'd trap the squirrels and release them. I hoped that part of the process would be finding their path entrance and sealing that, because if one found it, more would.
Because of my hours, I've never been around when the animal control guy's been there. On his first visit, he didn't spot any animals, but did see some droppings, so he left out some bait. I suppose this was a method to prove there were animals in the active in the ceiling, and that I wasn't having any sort of waking auditory hallucinations. (I wish work were that exciting.) The next week I heard at least two animals, running back and forth, scratching against the noisiest things they could find. I was convinced they would finally get enough leverage on one of the ceiling tiles to lift it all the way. I was in the constant mental process of preparing myself for a face to face meeting from my cute but destructive visitors.
The next week when I came to work, I saw a mess of what looked to be pine needles, or seed shells, or some other dead plant product, along with some droppings, that had fallen between the crack and the ceiling, so I called facilities again. And, again, I wasn't there when the guy came the next day to put in traps. Except, this time, traps really meant poison that, according to the guy, the animals would eat there, then run off and die somewhere else, sometime later. I wondered how you could be sure that the squirrel wouldn't die somewhere inside, but I figured that this guy was a pro and that he must have known something that I didn't. Like, maybe squirrels like to go off into the woods before they die or something.
Last week was the first I noticed the silence in my ceiling. It felt suddenly a bit more lonely, though a bit more sanitary as well. I figured John and Jane Q Squirrel must have felt sick, run off into the woods, nuzzled up together, and expired, looking into eachother's beady little eyes. Either that, or they suffered internal hemorrhaging and puked their foaming, bloody guts out. Together. I also hoped that, though I saw no maintenance take place and know it didn't happen, the entrance was found and sealed. In the end, whatever happened to those poor creatures, happened in or near a vent, because now the entrance of the building smells of sweet, rotting cabbage.
Oops!
My boss told me to call facilities, who would send the animal control folks they have a contract with. In the past, they'd trap the squirrels and release them. I hoped that part of the process would be finding their path entrance and sealing that, because if one found it, more would.
Because of my hours, I've never been around when the animal control guy's been there. On his first visit, he didn't spot any animals, but did see some droppings, so he left out some bait. I suppose this was a method to prove there were animals in the active in the ceiling, and that I wasn't having any sort of waking auditory hallucinations. (I wish work were that exciting.) The next week I heard at least two animals, running back and forth, scratching against the noisiest things they could find. I was convinced they would finally get enough leverage on one of the ceiling tiles to lift it all the way. I was in the constant mental process of preparing myself for a face to face meeting from my cute but destructive visitors.
The next week when I came to work, I saw a mess of what looked to be pine needles, or seed shells, or some other dead plant product, along with some droppings, that had fallen between the crack and the ceiling, so I called facilities again. And, again, I wasn't there when the guy came the next day to put in traps. Except, this time, traps really meant poison that, according to the guy, the animals would eat there, then run off and die somewhere else, sometime later. I wondered how you could be sure that the squirrel wouldn't die somewhere inside, but I figured that this guy was a pro and that he must have known something that I didn't. Like, maybe squirrels like to go off into the woods before they die or something.
Last week was the first I noticed the silence in my ceiling. It felt suddenly a bit more lonely, though a bit more sanitary as well. I figured John and Jane Q Squirrel must have felt sick, run off into the woods, nuzzled up together, and expired, looking into eachother's beady little eyes. Either that, or they suffered internal hemorrhaging and puked their foaming, bloody guts out. Together. I also hoped that, though I saw no maintenance take place and know it didn't happen, the entrance was found and sealed. In the end, whatever happened to those poor creatures, happened in or near a vent, because now the entrance of the building smells of sweet, rotting cabbage.
Oops!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Why My Pants Don't Fit
(One reason, anyway)
I had to scrounge up some lunch today. No ready to eat leftovers, didn't feel like ramen, no time to cook from scratch. But, I'm eating right now. What could it be?
It's the Funky Muffin's Famous Low Life Expectancy Bean Bowl, featuring:
1 can Bush's Baked Beans (Onion Flavored)
2 freezer hot dogs (of mysterious origin)
Remainder of Funky Muffin's Famous Quickmake Chipotle Burrito Filling (for a bit of kick/because there's not enough left for another burrito)
Remainder of Sharp Cheddar bits (for use in aforementioned burritos)
The verdict?
Adequate. The spice from the burrito filling is more than welcome, and the sharp cheddar feels at home with the beans and franks. It's ten times better than eating plain baked beans, yet falls so terribly short of other high cholesterol meat-bowl meals, like Hamburger Helper.
God help Dark Mistress Hawthorne.
(ps. The Sneeze and Achewood are particularly tasty today as well)
I had to scrounge up some lunch today. No ready to eat leftovers, didn't feel like ramen, no time to cook from scratch. But, I'm eating right now. What could it be?
It's the Funky Muffin's Famous Low Life Expectancy Bean Bowl, featuring:
1 can Bush's Baked Beans (Onion Flavored)
2 freezer hot dogs (of mysterious origin)
Remainder of Funky Muffin's Famous Quickmake Chipotle Burrito Filling (for a bit of kick/because there's not enough left for another burrito)
Remainder of Sharp Cheddar bits (for use in aforementioned burritos)
The verdict?
Adequate. The spice from the burrito filling is more than welcome, and the sharp cheddar feels at home with the beans and franks. It's ten times better than eating plain baked beans, yet falls so terribly short of other high cholesterol meat-bowl meals, like Hamburger Helper.
God help Dark Mistress Hawthorne.
(ps. The Sneeze and Achewood are particularly tasty today as well)
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
When the Old Folk Sulk at Radio Shack
I was hanging out with Stankfoot Monday, playing XBOX while my car got an oil change. We swung out to Taco Bell for lunch, and on the way, I asked "hey, can we stop at Radio Shack? I need to pick something up. It'll only take a minute."
What I needed to pick up was a battery holder, because I'd cut the one on the theremin out to use in fixing something for work. I happened to have our purchasing card on me, and felt like I ought to replace the one I used.
(because a working theremin is a happy theremin)
Being Monday, and an afternoon, I expected the place to be dead. The first thing I saw was two old folks looking at cell phones. The man was tall and skinny, while she was shorter and bent. Both looked to be in their eighties, maybe nineties. (Or, perhaps, some rough seventies.) I thought to myself "christ, good luck!" I mean, I'm a college educated person in his early adulthood, and I have a hard time understanding the intricate contingencies of my cell phone plan. Then, of course, I felt guilty for assuming that they couldn't just because of their age.
I found the part I needed and got in line behind a woman who looked to be in her late 50's. She was holding a lot of papers and discussing something with the sales rep when the phone rang. As he juggled the phone call and whatever he was looking up for her, my attention was drawn to the other sales rep, who was taking the couple's information. I presumed it was to open a cell phone account. The sales rep asked for the man's name, and the man, after giving his first name, said "here, it'd be easier if you just read it from my driver's license." He kept his leather wallet shut with a rubber band, and his voice sounded like dry oatmeal.
"Could I please have your address?"
I thought I heard the street name as "Stonederricks". I guess the sales rep had trouble too and he asked "could you spell that?" Suddenly, the woman sprang to life and asked "Can you spell it?"
"Yes, could you spell the street name?"
She paused, never breaking her glare, and said "Well, how do you spell stone?"
It's worth mentioning at this point that the couple actually didn't say anything, as much as they yelled it. By this time, the sales rep I was in line for gracefully ended his phone conversation and resumed trying to resolve whatever the issue was with the woman in front of me. There was a return, a radio with features not advertised, a canceled transaction, and an item that couldn't be ordered because it's not at the warehouse. Meanwhile, there were at least three people behind me, and I could hear their snickers and grumblings.
The sales rep calmly said "I've got the stone part. What's the other part?"
"The other part? Terrace! Terrace!"
"Okay, terrace."
"Don't give me any aggravation. I've had more aggravation than I already need."
"Now Mary, I could be having one of my bad talking days. Maybe I didn't say it good."
She turned and waved him off, resting her elbows on the counter. I couldn't help but feel amused, and I tried the best I could to hide my smirk. She was too much like a caricature of an old woman, too surrealistically sit-com-ish for me not to be dizzy with reflection on the absurdity of the moment.
"And the zip?"
She sprang back up off the counter. "The zip code? Where are we? What's your zip code here?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
This only further infuriated her. "That doesn't make! What do the! How can't you know?"
"I'm not from around here."
"You're not from around here. How can you work here then?"
"I'm new here. I just transfered. This is my second day."
She hunkered back down the counter.
"Well then... I guess... We should see someone with more experience then."
There was a pause as the sales rep typed their information in. I felt bad for him. I didn't know if really was his second day or not, but regardless, he was doing a remarkable job. He kept his face and voice even, never raising it, never mocking them, and never becoming short.
"You need a secret word for your account. What's your favorite hobby?"
"Hobby?" he started chuckling, "I'm retired! Geez."
The sales rep walked around to show them what phones they could get for free with their plan. "Which one should I get, Mary?"
"Oh Morris, I don't care, pick whatever one you like."
"Well, this one has big numbers, but this one might be easier to see at night. What phone should I get, Mary?
"Oh Morris. I don't care! Just pick a phone you like."
"Well, I don't know. It's got to have big numbers. We're old, you know! Mary, which phone do you think I should get?"
"Morris! Just pick one! I don't care! I'm going to fall over!"
The men behind me had been chuckling at this, but softly. It was when she said this that the woman in front of me giggled loud enough to hear.
"I have trouble standing, you know." She looked up at us for the first time. I was terrified, because she had two lazy eyes, and I had no idea if she was singling me out or not. "Do you know what? I've had five heart attacks! Five! I just buried my sister on December 12th. I have trouble standing for long periods of time. Go ahead and laugh, I don't care. You try it. Go ahead and laugh."
She waved us off and slumped down on the counter. The sales rep said "I'm going to see about getting you a chair."
The woman in front of me motherly said "Oh no! We weren't laughing at you, we were laughing with you! We know it's-"
"Go ahead and laugh."
"Oh no! It can be hard to-"
"Go ahead and laugh. I've had five heart attacks!"
Morris turned around and added. "She has, too!"
"Go ahead and laugh."
The rep returned from the back with a folding chair and set it up for her to sit on. Unprompted, she said, either to him or to all of us, "I'm not a liar!" He sat her down. "I wouldn't lie about that!"
I felt all sorts of emotions, but mostly I felt sad. There was exasperation and exhaustion her voice. I somewhat did expect her to fall over. I don't know what she went through before we walked in the store, but she'd had enough. It wasn't the sales rep's fault, or any of our faults. Had the world simply grown to complex? Had everything become a burden? Once it starts to slip through your fingers, is there any way to firmly grasp the world again? Or can you only watch it go by?
The woman in front of me finished up and immediately walked over to the old woman, sitting in her chair. "I want you to know we weren't laughing at you."
"I don't care, you go ahead and laugh."
"It's just that-"
"You guys go ahead-"
"-and we know how hard-"
"-get so tired-"
Their voices folded together and faded as my focus was drawn by my purchase. It took me twenty minutes to buy one part. I felt bad for bringing Stankfoot into this. Three steps out of the store he said "I was laughing at her."
"Yeah," I said, "I was too."
What I needed to pick up was a battery holder, because I'd cut the one on the theremin out to use in fixing something for work. I happened to have our purchasing card on me, and felt like I ought to replace the one I used.
(because a working theremin is a happy theremin)
Being Monday, and an afternoon, I expected the place to be dead. The first thing I saw was two old folks looking at cell phones. The man was tall and skinny, while she was shorter and bent. Both looked to be in their eighties, maybe nineties. (Or, perhaps, some rough seventies.) I thought to myself "christ, good luck!" I mean, I'm a college educated person in his early adulthood, and I have a hard time understanding the intricate contingencies of my cell phone plan. Then, of course, I felt guilty for assuming that they couldn't just because of their age.
I found the part I needed and got in line behind a woman who looked to be in her late 50's. She was holding a lot of papers and discussing something with the sales rep when the phone rang. As he juggled the phone call and whatever he was looking up for her, my attention was drawn to the other sales rep, who was taking the couple's information. I presumed it was to open a cell phone account. The sales rep asked for the man's name, and the man, after giving his first name, said "here, it'd be easier if you just read it from my driver's license." He kept his leather wallet shut with a rubber band, and his voice sounded like dry oatmeal.
"Could I please have your address?"
I thought I heard the street name as "Stonederricks". I guess the sales rep had trouble too and he asked "could you spell that?" Suddenly, the woman sprang to life and asked "Can you spell it?"
"Yes, could you spell the street name?"
She paused, never breaking her glare, and said "Well, how do you spell stone?"
It's worth mentioning at this point that the couple actually didn't say anything, as much as they yelled it. By this time, the sales rep I was in line for gracefully ended his phone conversation and resumed trying to resolve whatever the issue was with the woman in front of me. There was a return, a radio with features not advertised, a canceled transaction, and an item that couldn't be ordered because it's not at the warehouse. Meanwhile, there were at least three people behind me, and I could hear their snickers and grumblings.
The sales rep calmly said "I've got the stone part. What's the other part?"
"The other part? Terrace! Terrace!"
"Okay, terrace."
"Don't give me any aggravation. I've had more aggravation than I already need."
"Now Mary, I could be having one of my bad talking days. Maybe I didn't say it good."
She turned and waved him off, resting her elbows on the counter. I couldn't help but feel amused, and I tried the best I could to hide my smirk. She was too much like a caricature of an old woman, too surrealistically sit-com-ish for me not to be dizzy with reflection on the absurdity of the moment.
"And the zip?"
She sprang back up off the counter. "The zip code? Where are we? What's your zip code here?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
This only further infuriated her. "That doesn't make! What do the! How can't you know?"
"I'm not from around here."
"You're not from around here. How can you work here then?"
"I'm new here. I just transfered. This is my second day."
She hunkered back down the counter.
"Well then... I guess... We should see someone with more experience then."
There was a pause as the sales rep typed their information in. I felt bad for him. I didn't know if really was his second day or not, but regardless, he was doing a remarkable job. He kept his face and voice even, never raising it, never mocking them, and never becoming short.
"You need a secret word for your account. What's your favorite hobby?"
"Hobby?" he started chuckling, "I'm retired! Geez."
The sales rep walked around to show them what phones they could get for free with their plan. "Which one should I get, Mary?"
"Oh Morris, I don't care, pick whatever one you like."
"Well, this one has big numbers, but this one might be easier to see at night. What phone should I get, Mary?
"Oh Morris. I don't care! Just pick a phone you like."
"Well, I don't know. It's got to have big numbers. We're old, you know! Mary, which phone do you think I should get?"
"Morris! Just pick one! I don't care! I'm going to fall over!"
The men behind me had been chuckling at this, but softly. It was when she said this that the woman in front of me giggled loud enough to hear.
"I have trouble standing, you know." She looked up at us for the first time. I was terrified, because she had two lazy eyes, and I had no idea if she was singling me out or not. "Do you know what? I've had five heart attacks! Five! I just buried my sister on December 12th. I have trouble standing for long periods of time. Go ahead and laugh, I don't care. You try it. Go ahead and laugh."
She waved us off and slumped down on the counter. The sales rep said "I'm going to see about getting you a chair."
The woman in front of me motherly said "Oh no! We weren't laughing at you, we were laughing with you! We know it's-"
"Go ahead and laugh."
"Oh no! It can be hard to-"
"Go ahead and laugh. I've had five heart attacks!"
Morris turned around and added. "She has, too!"
"Go ahead and laugh."
The rep returned from the back with a folding chair and set it up for her to sit on. Unprompted, she said, either to him or to all of us, "I'm not a liar!" He sat her down. "I wouldn't lie about that!"
I felt all sorts of emotions, but mostly I felt sad. There was exasperation and exhaustion her voice. I somewhat did expect her to fall over. I don't know what she went through before we walked in the store, but she'd had enough. It wasn't the sales rep's fault, or any of our faults. Had the world simply grown to complex? Had everything become a burden? Once it starts to slip through your fingers, is there any way to firmly grasp the world again? Or can you only watch it go by?
The woman in front of me finished up and immediately walked over to the old woman, sitting in her chair. "I want you to know we weren't laughing at you."
"I don't care, you go ahead and laugh."
"It's just that-"
"You guys go ahead-"
"-and we know how hard-"
"-get so tired-"
Their voices folded together and faded as my focus was drawn by my purchase. It took me twenty minutes to buy one part. I felt bad for bringing Stankfoot into this. Three steps out of the store he said "I was laughing at her."
"Yeah," I said, "I was too."
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