because you need to know
Sunday, March 27, 2005 12:29 a.m.
the updated figure is five times. he puked five times today (or yesterday actually). it makes me sad to hear his oddly loud gutteral cat-moan, and then shortly after, he vomits. and the vet is so expensive that it might cost a couple hundred dollars just to find out exactly what the problem is. how can one afford that? good question.
C.
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pukey mcpukerson
Saturday, March 26, 2005 12:22 p.m.
one of my cats throws up a lot. twice today already. the vet is expensive, especially with two cats, but we dont want them to die. today they go. i am sick like them. well, not quite the same. i love it when i get three days off work in a row, but i happen to be ill for every day. maybe this will teach me to use my time more wisely. i have bad time management still: on days that i work (which is usually for six hours) i think i cant do anything else; 'no time' i say. but there is plenty of time and not enough money. there are stories buried deep in crumbling sidewalks.
sometimes i think i miss the window looking out over the parking lot on beverley. maybe its because i was above ground. but do i really miss the smell of cooking oil, wafting in thickly especially during thunderstorms? maybe. perhaps i miss the sky, those mornings when i still hadn't gone to bed, i would sit in the chair and gaze out the window, watch the sun rise, see the shifting shapes of the pink clouds forming above the smokestacks and apartment buildings. nowadays i am too concerned with getting to work on time to notice the sunrise, even though i am outside when the disc comes up. i only need to look up to be mesmerized once again, i hope. maybe i should wander like i used to. maybe i should do a lot of things. i dont want to surrender my dreaming to the working world. i want it to be mine. if i wander and immerse, the part of the world i want will be there in my head when i sleep. it will push out the pollution, the electricity, the interface, the dial tone, that ever-present hum that reminds me of the artificial fireplace back home.
sometimes i wake up in the middle of the night and i actually forget where i am. what year it is. who this creature sleeping softly beside me is. in a few moments it all comes back.
what if it doesnt come back one night?
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"house nigger"
Friday, March 25, 2005 4:20 p.m.
i am a house nigger. so are most of the people i know, and probably most of the people you know. are we supposed to feel privileged because we are not field niggers? this is, of course, an insufficent analogy, and really its an insult to slaves and their descendents, but it should be abundantly clear by now that i am ultra-dramatic. i feel like ranting on the miniature class-system that exists in the "service" industry. when middle-class (or even lower, like myself) people go out to dinner, they get to experience being "the boss" for once. they are greeted in the most servile (and phony) manner by a hostess (since most of them are female from my experience), seated, and then the "server", in short, becomes their bitch for however long they are there at the restaurant. this kind of relationship is disgraceful and it creates an air of hostility where there really should be solidarity. for me it is worse because most of the people that i make drinks for at my place of wage-slavery probably do make more money than me - they are either part of the managerial/coordinator class, or they are "artists" or yuppies. i make their six dollar fruit jooce drinks; when it gets busy i can see them impatiently watching me by the bar, huffing and puffing and glancing inanely at their watches. some even inquire as to whether their drinks are EVER going to be ready. i have to smile and grit my teeth and curse inwardly, or else i lose my job.
or i clean up after them on the days when i wash dishes for eight hours straight. i see their incredulous faces when they realise that they have to "serve" themselves: actually stand in line and order the overpriced reheated chic veggy cafeteria food. its not like the slobs have to act all polite and servile to themselves or clean up when they are done, ie kissing their own shiny asses. i field their confused and blaming inquiries about the location of the bathroom. by the look of them its as if i was to blame, as if i had created the terribly byzantine labyrinth that they must navigate so that they can crap their organs out after waiting too long to drink their wheatgrass. fuck.
and then there's the banter: oh holy fuck is it ever the stereotype of your dreams. if i have to endure one more gushing sermon about outsourced call centres being the most effective way to democratize whatever, i will vomit in their already-disgusting rice bowls. i have to stand there trying to ignore their bleating about the market as well as the bass thumping tripe emanating from the clothing store attached to my workplace, all the while washing their dishes, their bowls and plates of hip vegetarian crap mostly full; when they finally decide to leave, i see some of them stare at me whilst holding their wasted food, almost as if they are holding a dead baby and dont want anything to do with it. they can clearly see that i am washing dishes. but do they bring them to me? no. (some do) they either leave them on the filthy tables or they actually take them further away from me, all the way downstairs to the front of the fucking cafe! really, at that point i just want to yell, "Thank you, SIR, for making my job THAT much more enjoyable. I REALLY appreciate it. THANKS!"
now that i got that off my chest, i find that i have nothing to say. well then. until next time.
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...
Wednesday, January 12, 2005 11:00 p.m.
when i walk to work i keep seeing blackened corpses piled on the kerbs. then i walk closer to the piles and realize its only garbage. is there a difference?
december 25/26, 2004: there was a terrible earthquake. I hid underneath a table (why? it would not save me). Then I woke up..
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