aruan: (where do I start where do I begin)
I'm writing this down to remember why I WILL one day soon quit my job and find something else. I don't know what, but 24 is the perfect time to do what I have to do to find out.

After a brief visit home for various reasons yesterday, the first thing Brandon asked me when I came back is, "How's your mom?"

My mom. My amazing mother, who gave up her career to have me and my brother, who started her life over again twice (once in a new country with a different language), who wasn't ever afraid of anything is worried. About her job; her house, which has accrued a property tax bill she can no longer afford; my brother, who loves his girlfriend and is losing her to a job in Orlando soon; her (second) idiot ex-husband, who will never grow up and quite probably destroy himself in the process; being alone for the rest of her life.

My mother, who deserves every happiness and has had so little of it, is worried that, at age 50, she's done everything she's going to do.

There are a lot of things she never got a chance at, and I feel guilty that a large chunk of that was because of her having kids, then caring more about them more than herself by bringing us to the States. And I don't want that sacrifice to be wasted by settling for things in my own life.

I don't want to regret not doing something. I've got journalism, it's in my back pocket, but it's not what I want. At least not here. And continuing to stay here is doing a disservice to everyone involved, the job and Polk County.

It has its perks: decent pay, Brandon and I work together, health insurance. But what I want out of my job is something that is inherently in conflict with beat journalism - you make choices about what you cover, how long you follow a story, and there's never enough time for either. The job is also by nature passive - journalists are observers, and I don't do well on the sidelines if I care about something.

Oh, and I hate Lakeland, management is narrow-minded and ignores problems, my bosses are overworked without any opportunity for training, the hours make socializing impossible, and so on. The only problem with the unhappiness I feel is it comes in waves, and sometimes I believe it will disappear on its own somehow. But it's the things that would take - a mortgage, a kid, for the journalism market to tank any further - that will eventually tip the scale, because I don't want a house somewhere I hate, I can barely take care of myself let alone another human being, and if it comes to it I can start all over in another career or go back to school rather than be stuck doing this. Yes. That's what I need to remember.
aruan: (work oh work)
The other night, about 8:30 in the book-in office of the Polk County Jail, I was flipping through the day's arrest reports when a preacher walked in. He asked the clerk about someone he was bailing out, then turned around toward me. He glanced at his watch, then looked back at me and said, "Thought I was the only one still on the clock."

Which got me thinking. Workaholics excluded, whose regular business hours include 8:30 p.m.? Besides the good father and I, off the top of my head: tech support, retail and food service jobs, prostitutes, exotic dancers, cops, cabbies, theater employees, hotel staff, caterers, pilots, airport personnel, bartenders, gas station attendants, truckers, tow truck drivers, chauffeurs, hospital staff, etc.

Anyway, the point is the list got long. Which is interesting, because a lot fewer people work the traditional Monday-through-Friday 9-to-5 grind pop songs love to lament (pop singers!) than I assumed. Personally, I work Friday through Tuesday, 2:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m., and it's really bloody annoying to listen to the DJs on the radio cheer about how it's only a few hours until the weekend on my Monday morning.

So, what are your work hours?
aruan: (work oh work)
You know, I should get a government job, too. That way I can take those especially nice Friday afternoons off to go for a round of gold (EDIT:golf), like the Lakeland Police Department does, or just decide I want to leave at noon with e-mails from Tuesday still unanswered, like the Florida Department of Transportation. Not to mention bank holidays. Because it's not like my job depends on those officials doing theirs or anything.
aruan: (did I leave the artifact on?)
Confusing, mostly. He called this morning, and I went in to the office this afternoon when my shift would start to meet with him.

He seemed genuinely surprised that I wanted to leave, saying I was doing fine, that my writing style was direct and competent, and that everyone in journalism feels a step behind all their lives.

And that, right there, is the problem. )

And maybe quitting is a mistake, maybe I'm going to regret this so much when I have to beg my father for rent money as he berates my lack of commitment. But I think I'm going to work tomorrow and telling him to take our conversation as two weeks' notice.

[ETA: My unending gratitude to all of you who commented, seeming to think I can slay dragons or something. It's meant more than you know, even if I have to start my path to glory as a barista down the street.]
aruan: (work oh work)
Not much at all. Nothing for the void on the other side, a little wistful for the two co-workers I'll actually miss, lamenting that I'll probaly never work in a place with so much natural light and high ceilings. I'm sure the crippling worry of job hunting will set in any minute now, but this had to happen, for my own health and quality of life. What to even try doing next I can't begin to imagine, but I've got a book and a Starbucks down my street to help with that.
aruan: (big bang baby)
As a copy editor, at the end of the night I was frustrated and ready to snap the next time ATS told me a story I know fit two seconds ago is now short a line. By the next afternoon though, I was convinced none of it had been that bad.

As a reporter, at the end of the night I feel happy having produced something of value to the readers, a process that, thinking back on it, wasn't nearly as awful as I'd feared. By the next afternoon, I'm queasy with worry and stress that today's the day they'll call my bluff as a reporter and fire me on the spot because I hate making phone calls and don't know the routine and can't be aggressive or sympathetic enough to talk to lying officials and victims' families in the same 20 minutes.

Which I'm not, but what will happen if it does? A college degree and three years in a newsroom later, I still don't know what to say to comfort grief and tell when someone's lying to me. Yeah, wrong profession I'm entrenched in here much?

see icon

Jan. 16th, 2007 02:04 am
aruan: (maybe this is the time I won't)
Has something ever gone wrong in your life without any real indication that anything was amiss?

It did in mine today, and the whole thing might just be a big metaphor for what may happen to me if I remain in this reporting job. )

So what do I do? Keep the good parts in the forefront of my mind, remind myself that I'll get used to it and things will get easier? How long will that take, if it'll happen at all? And will I see the effects in oh, an ulcer or breakdown?

After all, as I learned today, an engine that's run out of oil, even otherwise perfect, can't function for long. And was neglecting my car, thinking everything was fine because there were no real signs it wasn't, any different than what I'm pushing myself to just grit my teeth and get through?
aruan: (this is my church)
I start being a reporter today at 10 a.m. Not sure which part of that sentence terrifies me more.

OMGWTFBBQreporting )

Briefly, 2006 in review:
-got first professional job (with the company I aspired to work for one day)
-lived alone for the first time (and down the street from a Starbucks)
-lost weight
-gained a boyfriend (six months this past 20th and obscenely happy)
-fell in love with TV again, namely Battlestar Galactica, SG-1 (all seasons on sale for $20 at Best Buy NOW), Gilmore Girls and Studio60
-became addicted to Sudoku
-went back to DragonCon
-finally did Halloween at Disney
-became a Mac owner
-rediscovered gaming (thanks Nintendo Wii! We got a kick out of the three unsold PS3s at Best Buy AND Target tonight, but no Wiis or its accessories in sight.)

Crisis of professional faith aside, I toast it!
aruan: (sometimes I just need to sit)
Amazon UK wouldn't sell me a DVD player.

Cut for vitriol about proprietary technology, including Apple and Microsoft. )

In further resentment news, I've been carrying back-burner bitterness about our corporate vacation policy. Employees get 10 a year with five added after you work here five years (and five more at 15, not 10) - don't even get me started on how draconian that is - but not me, oh no. I had FIVE for the entire year, because for the first six months, new employees work on some sort of "provisional" basis that grants them health benefits and sick leave (though not even that's approved sometimes, the bane of producing a daily product with a shoestring staff), but without accruing anything else. It probably doesn't even count toward my time at this company for pension purposes.

And so in this, my first year in the corporate world, I've worked all but five vacation days, two personal days and one sick day that I had to practically beg for with a fever and between coughs. And I'm not sure I could do it all again shouldering any more responsibility than I already have been, which is what the new job would mean, without any increase in pay or benefits of course.

So my question is, how much vacation time do you get at your jobs? And do you feel it's enough to balance out your stress levels associated with it?

[ETA: I was reminded there are five corporate holidays that, while we are probably working on the day itself, we get to pick a day within two weeks of it to take off. So it's actually been nine days off this year, plus a day for Christmas at some point, though only after the new year.)

All right, that was depressing, so to wash away the unpleasant taste, have a laugh.
aruan: (maybe this is the time I won't)
So, I got the job of Cops Reporter. Despite this meaning that I am de-facto writing for The New York Times, there is a whole other post about how much my freaking out about it overpowers the flutter of enthusiasm that prospect evokes in my gut.

So let's talk about my leaving the News Desk.

After a three-week search and numerous interviews, News Editor Andy was basically backed into a corner to hire a replacement for me or make do without. So come January we will carry on the tradition of hiring recent University of Florida graduates (among about half the staff, the boss here is a veteran and still goes to Gators games) with a girl named Elizabeth.

I hear she did marginally well on the copy editing test - apparently, nobody came close to the awesome of yours truly, though she at least put the animal cruelty story on the mock A1 page, which is Andy's version of a dealbreaker question. But he says she's trainable.

Not having been working the day she interviewed, I haven't met her. And besides not hiring libelous plagiarists, I'm not sure what the standard is for copy editors - we're a pretty varied bunch age- and background-wise, but generally smart and therefore slightly caustic, hardworking. Mostly, I hope she's useful to the desk, pitching in for others in a bind with a huge section, listening to and learning from Andy's advice.

Most of all though, I hope she gets along with Copy Editor Jeff. He's at least 50, a tall, rail-thin ex-hippie, but acts like a 35-year-old tomcat. He spends his weekends being a happy divorcee, hooking up with women he meets on match.com at a local bar called the Blue Nile but doesn't kiss and tell. He's got a grown daughter he spends his every vacation making road trips across the state to see, has a severe stutter but not when he's drunk, curses like a sailor and loves trains, and is generally this indelible ray of curmudgeonly sunshine with his completely non-skeezy lecherous humor, and I adore him.

But not everyone does, and I'm going to miss him sitting all the way across the office. So I hope Elizabeth gets him.
aruan: (smells like team spirit)
More specifically for tomorrow, when I'm to be in the office at noon (regular time being 4:30 p.m.) and shouldn't expect to leave until both weekend editions of East Polk are done, on the new system, with one of the "new" design girls. Being a compendium of all things making me happy right now, this will serve as a reminder that life is nonetheless worth living.

In the shower yesterday morning, Brandon and I discussed where the line is between fetish vs. fandom in terms of Star Trek versus religion and why one should be seen as more valid than the other. I might love him and have been trying to say so for a while, but it just came out as shampoo dripped into my eyes.

In a Sorkin two-for, not that I'm not already willing to break pretty much nine out of 10 commandments for him, Harriet is no longer a gaping black hole of screen time, and Sting plays the lute.

Despite the strife and anger and tears, both East Polk and Business made it out passably on their first night using the new software system, leading the managing editor to gush about Brandon and me as the "wizards" of MediaDesk all over, ironically, our old editing program Atex.

Just remembered that I got the phrase "high-end problem" into a headline on the Business front the other day. WORD TO MY MOTHER.

Thanks to a roommate somewhere in the course of human events, Brandon received mixes two through six and a few homemade (!) editions of DDR - including every song I've ever loved (I've got your number, Tribal Dance) - which he found on a CD this afternoon.

There's A LOT "" of Halloween candy on the kitchen counter.

Birthday windfalls mean I have enough money to buy an iMac. Not 24" of it like my heart of hearts desires, but a nice little 20" refurb, I think.

This will be a four-day workweek, after which Brandon and I have four days together starting Tuesday to cavort around Central Florida's finest Halloween venues.

Gilmore Girls did not break my heart into a thousand pieces this week. A hundred maybe, and mostly because of missed opportunities than blatant insipidity, but it wasn't the giant wad of suck that it's been. The banter was snappier, even through the pop culture stuff was shallow. Now, more Logan, less Christopher and no April, and we'd be so much closer to world peace than anyone writing for the show realizes.

This World of Warcraft songvid (dear god in heaven, you read that right) to Weird Al's Hardware Store.

Our laptops are set up across from each other on my pub-style dining room table. During last night's communal computer session, the Counting Crows' live album was accompanied by Brandon about two octaves below Adam Duritz.

The fact that this photo exists and has been provided to the media is, I think, wonderful. Like the one of Alito when he was five or so, blatant PR move though it was. But seriously, this Foley story? First of all, creepy and wrong, yes, but otherwise hilariously madcap and nonstop entertainment. Alcohol made him send instant messages while voting on the House floor! Homosexuality kept too long in the closet made him try to crash the pages' dorm! No, wait, priest abuse made him do it ALL! Oh, Republicans.

We've toasted with the first eggnog of the season.


Uh, I tried to space out the Brandon stuff, but he accounts disproportionately for my happiness these days.

Correction

Oct. 17th, 2006 07:19 pm
aruan: (ohgodWHY)
Hell is being dependent on other people to be able to do your own job.

That is all.
aruan: (the eyes have it)
WORK )

All you need to know? I finally put to the office that I'd like to write in addition to copy editing.

TV )

All you need to know? [prostrates self at Aaron Sorkin's feet]

LIFE )

All you need to know? We're going to [livejournal.com profile] krissi518's wedding tomorrow, which is tres exciting, even if I haven't a thing to wear. How big of a faux pas would a black dress be?
aruan: (ohgodWHY)
Have you ever read something that you knew, just KNEW, that you'd be the only one to have to suffer through, because your proofer would skim at best, and not even the people involved will bother with the hideously boringly written minutae of their lives?

Yeah, that'll be my night. By the end of it, I will know a combined 170 inches' worth on the Lake Wales charter school system, and everyone else will use the paper to line their pets' cages.

Uh, distraction please?
aruan: (Default)
Work bitching. Basically, everything went wrong and I didn't breathe all night. )

But Copy Editor Brandon changed his dinner plans when I expressed a desire for a Chicken Grilled-Stuft Burrito, bless his soul, and now I have hot tea and chocolate-dipped biscotti pilfered from home, because my mother thinks I should lose weight but loves me more and so happily shares anything that brings me joy, and there's no biscotti to be had in this bloody county but she has a Costco membership.

So, in celebration of my hellish day being over, a few less chocolate-covered things that have nonetheless made me happy recently for you (songs are YouSendIt links):

NEWS The St. Petersburg Times is what newspapers in Florida want to be when they grow up. They're like an indie New York Times, with long narrative stories specializing in the people, not the talking heads. Yesterday, they ran a story about a Vietnam veteran father whose Marine son was wounded in Iraq last year, and how the process of his recovery has been healing them both. Expertly told, with compassion but without sappiness. I'm not sure it's good journalism – single source, no real time element – but it's wonderfully compelling, which is what any journalist worth her salt tries to be.

Apparently, there's a softer side to us all, including hardass Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, who has been quietly helping his friend's widow to find information about his possibly having survived a 1956 plane crash. It's... such a human thing for this man I've always thought of as immutable, cold and intimately familiar with the concept of loss being a principle of war.

FIC [livejournal.com profile] trinityofone - The Man Who Rose From Earth She posted a bit of the conversation that spurred this story at the end of it, saying that wingfic involving John Sheppard would be the "most angst-free wingfic ever." And yeah, this is what happens when something makes you that happy – everything else melts away. There's freedom in happiness, and I loved John's unreserved willingness to embrace it, even knowing the cost to everyone else.

[livejournal.com profile] corinna_5 - The New Math In which Atlantis plays yenta. It was… unexpectedly poignant.

[livejournal.com profile] siegeofangels - Business As Usual Aliens make them do it, and it's not the start of something beautiful. The way John deals through Elizabeth, and Rodney doesn't quite manage much beyond avoidance is so painful and just like two straight guys would react. Not my usual fare, as John and Rodney belong together forever is the mantra of my heart, but smart and honest, and that's special too.

MUSIC The Caesars - Jerk It Out The first time I heard this in the iPod commercial, I might have done something embarrassing like shudder publicly. Goes straight through me like a shot of adrenaline every time. (Bonus track: their kickass cover of (Don't Fear) The Reaper, though I do miss the cowbell.)

Prodigy - Breathe The cure for what ails you. Sublimation in crazy, angry rhythms that feel both finely balanced and out of control.

The Vines - Ride With Me You may know it from the Stargate previews hyping the second halves of their respective seasons. Very fitting and kicky.

Ben Lee - Gamble Everything for Love Song of my heart at the moment. Simple and sweet and so optimistic, it makes my jaded soul ache.

Sarah Vaughan & Peter Gunn - Max Sedgley I don't know who Max is, but when I heard this outside Starbucks, it sounded like Sarah had taken her action hero boyfriend's theme song and wrote him a little piece of her mind about what she thought of his absentee, womanizing ways.

Carbon Leaf - Life Less Ordinary Another hopeful little ditty by someone convinced of love and its obvious simplicity.

Oh, by the by, if anyone has Sarah Hammer's Lodestar, I'd be ever so pathetically grateful.
aruan: (no Earth-bound misfit I)
I ran away from home last weekend.

Well, almost, and only sort of. I left my apartment Wednesday afternoon to have dinner at Panera, which involves a route that takes me by the freeway. And sitting at the red light before the overpass, I decided I wanted to drive and eat by the water. So it was onto I-4 and east through the breezy fading day to Orlando.

Which led to realizing the inherent futility of trying to derive enjoyment from a theme park by myself, of thinking that seeing SeaWorld's new baby killer whale could be something I'd be content to appreciate quietly or that eating really good German food at EPCOT would somehow make up for having to raise my beer with a tableful of strangers, and by the time I was done crossing off every prospect that had thrilled me so on the drive, it was all I could do not to feel sick to my stomach until I was well out of the city limits again.

At least half of my problem with adjusting to this new life in Lakeland is not adjusting to it. I haven't made a single attempt at meeting anyone outside of my work, and most of them have spouses and kids and do things so far outside my repertoire that we don't even bother with things beyond the usual platitudes. I harbor no particular interest in Copy Editor Brandon, the only other person even remotely my age there, I don't attend church, I don't go to school, and going to clubs was never really my thing even when I had people to go with. I live more than a little bit for Former Editor Mike's visits so my questions stop being de facto rhetorical and I don't have to eat alone.

None of which is fair to the new people I do have in my life, like Designer John, who makes for a limited but otherwise enthusiastic squee partner about all things sci-fi and leaves newspaper clippings about Dr. Who on my chair for me, Metro Editor Billy, who makes it a pleasure to come to work all night long and inspires me to try harder, and Desk Chief Andy, who tells me about air shows and strawberry festivals as suggestions to have family and friends visit and always asks after me in small ways. And I do still own a telephone and computer.

But it was all I could do not to lock myself in a bathroom stall and have a quiet little breakdown Sunday night. Andy talks about "next year this" and Brandon says things like "looking to buy a house here" and Copy Editor Ben visits his dad who lives in the house he was raised in about 20 miles away, and I look at them with horror in my gut, fending off increasingly beckoning memories of Paris and running away there with [livejournal.com profile] walkingshadow to give guided tours of the Louvre, learning to love the smell of carpeted public transit and slumming it in a ratty flat on the seventh floor in a building without elevators. We'd eat 2 Euro cheese-and-tomato baguettes from street vendors and walk the Seine at night and pop into London to see a play over the weekend and visit every museum in the city on their free nights, living poor and peerlessly happy.

Yet some of my co-workers have lived in Lakeland all their lives and want nothing more than to keep doing just as they are. When it comes to jobs, people have all kinds of motives - money, employee discounts, love of the game, something to do. I should've remembered before taking this gig that I would've waited tables in the dangerous parts of New York City for the chance to live there. But even if not an ocean away, I need out of this town by the time my lease is up at the end of the year.

SIDEBAR: Which means remembering that this is not a drill. )

The thinking that went into my taking the job as Metro Editor at the Alligator in December 2004 was how badly I wanted to contribute more to the paper, remembering how bitter I'd been about a very sub-par co-worker being made Freelance Editor the semester before and proving it should've been me, that I would be working most closely and directly with Justin, whom I'd admired since the first night I started working there. I knew this would be work that gave my university career meaning, that the doing of it would make me happy for the first time since writing papers for Ms. Igualada in high school.

I need that kamikaze commitment, and there is exactly nothing here that inspires that in me, hence the increasingly uncontrollable wanderlust for what else is out there. I realize that this is a necessarily cushioned, relatively safe and smart first step into the real world of journalism. But that doesn't make it feel any less pointless than going to class did while I was learning three times as much at the office every night. While hostel-hopping in Europe, I met several girls my age who came to a city, found a job of some ilk and made just enough to eat and sleep somewhere, then went someplace new when they got bored. What an extraordinary way to live. Not that there aren't admitted advantages to my non-minimum wage salary or the fantastic New York Times health coverage or you know, not waiting tables, but right now all I want again is for the world to stretch boundless with possibility before me again like it did when I walked on UF's campus and sat endlessly chainsmoking in the sidewalk cafe at Boulevard Arago.

And then I remember that I, too, want to do just one near-perfect thing, and I think working for the actual New York Times could be it, and that's maybe worth having less caffeine and French food and lazy afternoons until then. But maybe one of you should come down for a weekend so we can go to Disney and eat chocolate croissants in the shadow of EPCOT's faux Tour Eiffel nonetheless.

[P.S. I keyworded this icon a dream in my hands, because the idea that Rodney went all the way to the Pegasus Galaxy in a (small, subconscious) attempt to work his way back to Sam is an impossibly romantic one. And one that I can appreciate at this juncture.]
aruan: (saving the universe in style since 1967)
Journal redesign strife. )

So, hey, I graduated college! Not that the whole renting a cap and gown, sitting through a long, boring ceremony, walking across a stage, shaking hands with the two people I would've been content to never meet, then bounce between two sets of relatives thing didn't feel real enough. But my diploma arrived in Saturday's mail. Really, by itself it was a fairly forlorn and unimpressive piece of parchment paper. But then I put it in the frame my mom got, and all of a sudden it's this official, regal document wrapped in mahogany that says thing like The University of Florida has conferred on and bachelor of science and all the rights and privileges thereunto appertaining, two of which I didn't even know were actual words, and upon recommendation of the faculty of the College of Journalism and Communications. I'm a journalist, y'all, a whole college's worth of faculty say so! It was neat, I had to swipe at my cheek a little while holding up the final result. It's such a satisfying thing, to be that much closer to the person I've always wanted to be.

Sports Editor Ted is likely a lost cause, Copy Editor Brandon and I have started to bond over questionable foods, and why I love working for Metro Editor Billy. )

Hitting up MegaCon in Orlando on Sunday was a neat little time warp exercise in remembering middle school, but otherwise largely unproductive. What's with the dearth of Stargate swag in the world? However, there was soft-serve ice cream and John Schneider (Bo Kent, as we call him down on the farm) juggling. He looked really ridiculously good, tan, longer hair with blondish highlights, fantastically fitting shirt, laughing and jumping around with fans. There was also driving with the top down in gorgeous, breezy weather, which meant not even getting a half hour's worth of lost dampened my spirits. And at the end of the day, I do have an Atlantis mission patch to sew on the ass of my favorite jeans.

The real reason for my lack of updates is that I've been reading SGA fic like a fiend. Came across something incredibly depressing the other day involving John and Rodney living to be old enough to retire from the Atlanis mission. They had bought a house by the ocean and Rodney swung a puddlejumper for the garage, and it was so hard to read. I don't even mean the fact that the likelihood of them living that long is infinitesimal, but the idea of wanting to preserve some pale shadow of the lives they'd led. Anyone who's ever lived knows the impossibility of recreating anything, a moment, a place, a memory. None of it will be perfect, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

As I fall deeper into the television abyss thanks to the DVR... )

And it's officially at the point where I'm making a list of things I have in my refrigerator as opposed to things I need. To Publix it is.

Quotes )
aruan: (Default)
Working is interesting. I keep having these little moments, walking down a tiled hallway with my heels clicking, and I look down and I'm wearing grey slacks and a black suit jacket and have a keycard dangling from my pocket and calling the New York Times Company Employee Services Center to set up my payroll account and will imminently be in a roomful of grown-ups treating me like I was one of them. Granted, I'm far from working the conventional nine-to-five or wanting to take my anger out on office technology, but I'm a little less mystified by something I've wondered about since being very young: How does the world work?

No, really, how do I have running water to shower with and food to buy and all the other invisible processes that make life possible? Well, now I know how that newspaper got on my doorstep every morning (though that one I learned from the bottom-up, helping my mom deliver them when my parents had to do that sort of thing to make ends meet). I know why people get certain jobs and locked out of others. I get why they go to work, but I also get just wanting to get back to what you were doing before you had to leave it mid-sentence to jump in the shower and leave to get there.

I also think about the fact that I'm not the youngest person I know in fandom anymore. I remember being on the XFR mailing list (when those were still en vogue) and hating being 13 because I wanted to go to Boston and Texas and meet all these fabulously funny and smart women and drink and talk about the show until all hours of the morning. I think now about what kind of role I can reasonably allot that once-essential part of my life.

After coming across oogobs of brochures from my senior year of high school in some box the other day, I'm thinking about not being in college anymore, about how maybe I wasted my potential by not applying to some small snooty school at the foot of some far-off mountain and dedicated four years of my life to walking barefoot no matter what the weather and reading books that don't exist outside of their libraries. That maybe I would've learned something completely different and ended up worlds away from here.

I wonder what I would've become and what's next at age 23. [shakes head]

Mostly, I wonder about the fact that everything I knew how to do - go to class, take tests, fulfill marginal else in the way of responsibility and fuck off anytime I wanted at only my own expense - is over. And what is next? Is work all there is from here on in? What is this "life" you speak of, and how does one get it, exactly?

So tonight, I snuck off after the last page was done with my iPod Shuffle and danced like a loon in a deserted hallway just outside the newsroom to Come Out and Play. Ben walked by and almost caught me, at which I froze and flushed crimson, thank god for the relatively low evening lighting, but it felt so good. So... normal.

News that goes sparkle and pop. )

In The Hive news, what she said here. I've been wondering this very thing, about the WINDFALL of drug addict!fic that should've spilled forth from it, but have found nothing. Nothing! Fandom, you work in mysterious ways.

The men of my week are Conan and the Max Weinberg Seven - the former for taking his desk out tonight (I LIVE for cheap blue-screen comedy with shotgun straightmen) and the latter for playing Kelly Clarkson's Since You Been Gone during the "walkover" so Conan could razz them about it extensively. Also the fact that they're taking the show to Finland because they allegedly worship him like a golden god for looking like their prime minister. And he's going to be this massive dork about it, though they'll want to wrap him in furs and knight him. [heart]

And since it seems like the time of year for unpopular opinions... )

I really should've gone to bed four hours ago, but being caught up on the friendslist, especially after all of Anthony's talk about claiming something for myself separate from the office, seemed more necessary.
aruan: (Default)
So, staying up until 6 a.m. watching SGA and writing endless snippets of fic ideas, while a lovely way to spend an early morning do not make for a particularly smart move, given my imminent need to be in full control of my faculties (Friday: 8:30 a.m. - three-hour Reporting lab; 1 p.m. - interviews for new Alligator executive staff; 3 p.m. - French composition; 8:20 p.m. - Economics test, before which I need to study material an inch thick and make a notecard). Hand me that noose over there, wouldya please?

But seriously, this show is eating my brain a piece at a time. Currently, it's Beckett and his being the most out of his element on Atlantis. The laws of physics remain fairly immutable, people have the same mental problems anywhere, and the military brings its own order, but his patients are having their brains chewed on by nanoviruses, being exposed to a thousand bacteria that humans may never document, breathing air with chemicals that the Periodic Table is decades away from including, and coming back to him with all manner of exotic diseases and bites and god knows what else. And he's left to make it up as he goes along with yeah, the thorough knowledge of Earth medicine and whatever he's been able to piece together of Ancient, but mostly he just wraps people in bandages and keeps them for observation, then tells them to drink fluids and check in because what else can he do? It's got to be an immensely frustrating thing, to have been good at what he does and all of a sudden finding himself back in freshman med school class during practical finals without having gone to the lectures.

Also, Rodney knows an awful lot about chemistry and viruses for an astrophysicist. Is it just the science of treating people that he frowns on?

Mike's version of criticism. )

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Eva

May 2014

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