cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

three for one dollar

You bright and shiny beings of shininess! Your randomness has made me smile all day long. That and the Excedrine Migraine, which, according to a work email sent to all of us today, “may affect a staff member’s job performance and seriously impair the staff member’s value to the University.” Fear not, gentle policy writer: the only impairment I suffer during the headaches of biblical proportions is the fact that, o, say, I CAN’T SEE, which is why I take the HEADACHE MEDICINE in the FIRST PLACE.

Ah, bureaucracy. Ah, your myriad forms in triplicate, your gentle, burgeoning bosom of diversity training and online sexual harassment workshops. How I love to be treated like a three year-old.

The library is luxuriously quiet. No mobile ringers going off every thirty seconds, despite prolific signage asking patrons to turn the fucking ringers OFF, it being a LIBRARY and all. No patrons to glare at me condescendingly when asking where our copiers are located. No faculty members to require things three days ago. It’s merely a building full of books, which means it’s heaven.

There is a little liveliness, of course. My co-workers and I listen to SomaFM’s Xmas in Frisco streaming radio station and giggle at the weirder tracks. Yesterday a few Air Force officers were hanging out in the lobby, waiting to recruit something, anything, maybe a squirrel if it wandered too close, I don’t know. But all the students have already gone home, so instead they just stood about in their fancy-schmancy uniforms and made us cringe.

Last night I dined with one of my favorite co-workers of all, who is no longer my co-worker; I am jealous of her new co-workers because they get to hang out with her all the time. She looks great, feels great, and is willing to talk and listen at length about anything. These three things push her over the fabulous line in my book.

That line, just so you know, is dotted with purple rhinestones and smells like rosemary.

I am thinking of my maternal grandmother today because I found a paperback of mine in my office from a long time ago. The frontispiece is stamped with 3 FOR $1.00 and the name of her favorite used bookstore outside of Detroit. The title is Alfred Hitchcock Presents: More Stories Not For The Nervous, and I can assure you, it is true to its name, plus it contains the entirety of “Sorry, Wrong Number”. I have owned this book for sixteen years; it was published almost forty years ago. It cost seventy-five cents. It smells like fiberglass insulation.

Please do not purchase the game Cluster Buster for your Sidekick 2. If you aren’t dreaming of EverQuest2, you’re dreaming of shooting tiny colorful spheres at one another in attempts to match them up and consequently obliterate them. You miss the days of dreaming about that handsome auburn-haired, bluegreen-eyed man cooking you hanger steak and then kissing your neck. You will have to settle for this only in waking life. You think that will be okay.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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