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I don't want to be alone, I want to be left alone

So a couple of years ago, I shared a rented house with others. On the inside it was a nice house with hardwood floors, very spacious. Since we were all pretty poor, the outside was a bit ugly and it was in an iffy area of that city. (My sister and I were once driving at night on an ice cream run and, just up the street from the house, watched two prostitutes get picked up by a black Escalade. In a residential neighbourhood. Okay.) Anyway, my bedroom's main window, the window behind the headboard of my bed, faced the walkway up to our front door, and also across the dividing fence to another rental house owned by a different landlord, and that house's back door and kitchen area. The assmonkey that lived there was a dick white guy, constantly drunk on cheap beer, and incredibly abusive to us. To me especially. Shortly after we moved in I was awoken by him yelling and muttering, mostly racial epithets - the N word. Soon I realized this wasn't just a drunk being crazy late at night, this was intentional, and directed at my bedroom window. I'd never spoken to the guy and I'm not really a loud person at all. I cherish quiet and a lot of alone time, my only real noisy times being when I would play music, but even then I try to keep it within my walls.

Anyway, long, horrible story short, this asshole's abuse escalated so much and became so bad I developed PTSD over it. He would slam doors repeatedly and scream at 2 or 3 in the morning to wake me up, come outside and break some glass and mutter just loud enough for me to hear that he was going to rape and kill me, and constantly call me the N word throughout (I'm half Hispanic and half Caucasian, but I guess to Kaptain KKK, anyone who didn't look like his rank pasty blond ass was the N word). I had to get a restraining order against him because the cops kept coming out, but could only arrest him when they caught his abuse for themselves. I got the restraining order - and he still kept abusing. I had him arrested a few times, my favourite being 20 minutes before his sorry ass "Superbowl Party" that was just going to be him and his dad. He went away for two weeks that time, because he yelled that my two toddler nephews were "dickheads" as they were walking down that path to go to the car. They weren't being loud or screaming, but because they were associated with my house, they were fair game. To celebrate wrecking his "party," my sister and I stifled our laughs at the asshole's dad knocking on the door and calling out for his son, then leaving. Then we split a six pack and watched the game.

Even after that, he wouldn't shut up. Thankfully, we moved, and now I live by myself. I live downtown in a city that's part of LA County, close to the beach, and a leeeeettle sketch. But it's the first place I've ever had by myself, a studio in an historic, ugly-on-the-outside building, and I fought hard to get this financial independence. But oh hey, guess what?

I have a new door slamming asshole male neighbour that is escalating. Super.

I'm currently on disability leave, so I'm home basically all the time. We recently found the source of my crippling pain is nerve damage, which is shitty and will take a lot of time to take care of, but I'm not dying. I just spend a lot of time lying down and keeping still and sleeping, since pain meds don't really work on the pain and sleeping is when I don't hurt. This guy, the new asshole, lives across the hall and over one apartment. (It's a narrow little building so it's not huge, just 5 apartments on our half of the building; two on the other side of the hall and three on my side.) This guy developed Butterfingers, or his thumbs fell off, or something happened to make him forget how to properly close a door, so he started slamming his door. Only him, only sometimes, so it wasn't that their door was warped, because the girlfriend can still operate the door without incident. This new asshole slams the door so hard that it shakes my entire apartment, which, remember, is on the other side of the building and over about 20 feet. I can hear and feel it when I'm in the shower, on the very far side of the building from his door. There's no fucking excuse. And often, he wakes me up, which is not only startling, but confuses me when I'm already delirious at times and gives me flashback to the original asshole. Even if that wasn't the case, it's a nasty way to wake up, in a panic, and when I'm awake, there's pain. So he's robbing me of a normal heart rate and a few hours without pain. I started calling out from my daytime bed, the couch (I need some variety) to quit slamming the door. Activate troll powers!

Now he slams the door constantly. I don't know what, if anything, he does for a living, but he will manage to come and go throughout the day and slam the door up to 20 times in one day. In the past week he's started just slamming the door, waiting 10 or 15 minutes, and just slamming it again. Fucking asshole. Instead of thinking "Hmm, my actions are obviously affecting others, maybe it is annoying," he went straight to "FUCK YOU BITCH, THIS IS ALL YOU'RE GETTING ALL DAY AND NIGHT BECAUSE YOU'RE A FUCKING BITCH." We've only ever spoken once, shortly after I moved in and we shared an elevator ride, and he had been friendly then. But never since then, and now he's just going out of his way to be hateful, so fuck him. I wanted to vent the majority of my frustrations here, because I have to write a letter to the building manager after this telling her about all this and not sound like a hysterical wreck. I know he doesn't know my history with that other guy, the guy I started having nightmares about, where I'd come home to a dark and empty house when everyone was supposed to be home, the door open and him standing there, talking about how he'd murdered my family in there and was waiting for me. I get that, it's not something I tell everyone just after I introduce myself. But it's also unhinged of him to go from Point A (someone complaining about his noise in a small building) to Point ƶ ("I'm making it my life's mission to just troll the fuck out of this person for complaining"). I'm sure that if I was a guy, or if I lived with a guy, this wouldn't be happening. It's frustrating, because it happens a lot, but that doesn't make it any less true. Now I have to be a tattletale crybaby because asking someone to use doors properly only gets me harassment. The next time I move, it's to a remote property in a foreign country, because I am fucking done with you, humanity.

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So I just discovered Manfeels Park - parody of my favourite Jane Austen book, Mansfield Park, making it just that much better - and oh god, am I loving it. This one in particular struck me because, during the immediate aftermath of the UCSB shootings (which happened a few hours from where I live, and made me afraid to go outside for about a week, since I get a lot of street harassment in this neighbourhood), we all know that #yesallwomen took off on Twitter, and I opened up about some of my experiences. A guy followed me when all this was going on.

Okay, nothing too out of the ordinary, right? And I checked his feed and he was humbly saying “this just shows me how much I need to educate myself” and all that sort of thing, so I thought “great, he’s open to educate himself. Follow back.” Less than three days after the shooting, however, he apparently reverted back to his natural form of “women say they want nice guys, but always choose assholes,” and “I’m a really nice guy, but that won’t get me anywhere.” I felt a bit sick, but didn’t immediately unfollow. However, that same day I tweeted about something, I forget what now, and he made a somewhat sexually suggestive comment. I ignored it, but unfollowed him.

Maybe a week or so later, having forgotten about him, I tweeted about not wearing pants. Oh my stars and garters, can I stop clutching my pearls long enough to stop the presses?!? I live in Southern California, it’s fucking hot here. I live in an historical building from the early 20s, so it has no AC and no heat, and I can’t have my own (installed or portable) because this building is protected. Yeah, not going to be doing that again. Anyway, it was fucking hot, I’m on disability due to chronic pain due to nerve damage, and I need to get as comfortable as I can. That’s all I care about. Creepy McLecherson pipes up with “You’ve got my attention…” Ugh. Ignored.

Then I suddenly missed Alaska, and was looking to see how cheap/expensive it would be to live there. I posted some listings that would be great for two people and jokingly asked who wanted to move with me, since I already know which friend I’m going to re-enact Grey Gardens with in a few years, when we officially give up on life. Greasy McManmeat pipes up again with “I’m interested, if you don’t think that’s creepy,” or something like that, and yeah, I do think it’s creepy, guy who has never even tried to have any sort of conversation with me, but felt totally comfortable filling his Twitter feed with suggestive comments to young ladies, once I went back and read his latest tweets. I realized he’d been trolling the #yesallwomen feed and cherry picking young ladies he’d been interested in, and trying to make it with them. Where’s a vomiting emoticon when you need it?

My friend, the future Big Edie to my Little Edie, called him out for being creepy, and he blew her off by saying “I refuse to think it’s creepy unless I hear it from her directly,” “her” being me. So yeah, I jumped in. Don’t be blowing off my Big Edie! I did about a 5 tweet diatribe saying that he is creepy because he has no interest in talking to me, only at me in sexually suggestive situations, and it made me feel like a caged bird being stared at by a hungry cat. He apologized for making me feel that way and said it wouldn’t happen again, and that was supposed to be that.

Except haha, you know that wasn’t it. About half an hour after the apology he came back to Twitter and said something to the effect of “after looking over my actions, I found that I’m not to blame. I did nothing wrong.” So, basically “sorry not sorry my creepiness makes you feel like a faceless piece of ass, bitch. This is your issue, you deal with my objectification.” I blocked him, since he was still following me, but we all know blocking someone on Twitter is about as effective as holding up a square of toilet paper to fend off a knife attack. He was subtweeting the shit out of me, responding to every single fucking tweet I posted immediately after I posted it. Oh, and he always referred to me as his stalker. Really, bitch? Obsessively troll my feed and subtweet instantly, yet I’m stalking you? I didn’t look at your feed for over a week after I blocked you. And I’m glad I did go back, because it was getting really fucking scary.

See, I’ve been through this before. I had a guy stalk me online back in 2003 or so, to the point where he announced he was flying out to California and I needed to meet him. Whaaaaaat. I said I couldn’t, thankfully because I was legitimately moving that week, but it freaked me the fuck out. This old stalker guy would troll through all of my online presence and draw pictures of me and everything I liked and email them to me. After I said I couldn’t meet him he threw a huge fit, saying he wasn’t coming out here to see me, and I was vain and stupid for thinking so. And how did he know that’s what I thought? Oh, just that he created a bunch of false personas and kept hammering away at me via email and MySpace until I was so paranoid I locked down everything online to people I only knew in real life to get him out of my private dealings. A friend found this creep on a celebrity fan forum, raging away about his “stalker” (me). Eventually I made one public post, advising him I knew all that he was saying and doing in his continual harassment, and if it didn’t stop immediately, I would take all my screengrabs and printouts of his rants to the DA, who was interested in working with his state’s police on the matter. He deleted everything and nearly disappeared. Every few years I pop back to monitor him and he still seems to be over me. Or, he knows to keep that shit off the internet.

So no, fucking moron Twitter stalker that USES HIS REAL NAME, AND WHO WORKS AT A UNIVERSITY WITH UNDERAGE AND BARELY LEGAL FEMALES, I’m not your stalker. But I can fucking ruin your life with one phone call. I know you’ve blocked me back because, just before I locked down my profile for a week to try and deter you and retweeted something about men that harass women often doing so under their real name, and that must have scared the panties off of you, which is why you blocked me and locked down your shitty, dull profile. So go ahead, dive off that cliff, princess. In your mind I’m sure it was totally necessary.

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Just gonna butt in to say I don't know for certain, but he once tried to steal my lunchbox-as-a-purse in the midst of a show because he thought it had toffees in it. He was obsessed with toffees, so perhaps that's his favourite? Either way, someone should really feed him so he quits stealing.

whats jarvs favourite food?

Anyone?

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left to die

Buhhhhh...I haven't been on Tumblr forever, because I have just enough self control to realize I have an addictive personality, and I was waaaaay to addicted to this place. So I just quit for a few years. Then I quit my personal site and needed to bitch about the Pulp film, and now I have another thing to bitch about. Hi Tumblr. This is about US healthcare. This is about finally having a job with "good" insurance, and still not being treated well, and being denied disability when I cannot sit up or stand without excruciating, vomit-on-my-shoes-and-pass-out-pain, and about how, when I was finally able to totally support myself as an independent woman, something in my body went wrong and it will now ruin the rest of my life. Everything after the jump, punctuated by stupid gifs because it's an insanely long read and I pity your eyes.

So back in November 2013, I started having stronger than normal pain about a week before my period. I know my body, I know my usual PMS symptoms, and I know when something ain't right. This pain was more than normal cramps, and the usual extra strength Tylenol didn't do anything. "Great, I'm getting older and PMS is getting worse," I thought, because it had gradually been getting worse over the years. The joys of getting older. Then in December, about a week before my period, it was worse, and I missed a day or two of work. I only get two weeks of paid sick leave per year, and I'd barely been a full time person for 6 months, so I didn't have much paid time off accrued at all. (Before that I was a full-time temp, which is just a way of saying "same hours, shittier pay, and if you want benefits, you pay for 'em and they're still not good.")

me, every day at work

In January I missed even more time, and was getting really worried, so I was able to get a last minute appointment with a gyno. I hadn't had insurance very long, after not having any coverage for over 10 years, and I was always working, so setting up doctors and the usual body maintenance hadn't even happened. Anyway, the gyno ordered an ultrasound to check for endometriosis and cysts, and a cyst was found on each ovary, with the larger one being on the left. Oh hey, all my abnormal pain is on the left. So she prescribed a low hormone pill to regulate and lessen my period symptoms and try and curb those cysts. I kept chugging along, but the pain still intensified. In April I tried to get in to see her because it was getting worse and I was out of paid time off at work, and I was worried about losing my job. She couldn't see me for two weeks, so fuck. My stepmom called to her gyno - the same guy that tended my mum when she was pregnant with both me and my sister, as it turns out - and he was able to see me. He wrote a note excusing me from the week of work I'd missed due to this pain, ordered another ultrasound to check the cysts, and changed my Whore Pills to a higher level hormone. I'd told him that anything other than low hormone makes me puke, but he felt more was needed to curb those bastard cysts. By the beginning of May I was in constant agony. The pain never stopped. I left work within 2 hours when I could even make it in. On top of that, I had jury duty in downtown LA, which is about a 90 minute trek one way thanks to shitty traffic and having to park 6 blocks away from the courthouse and walk. On the third day of jury duty, the pain changed to an intense burn and suddenly flared so badly I wished I was dead. But you can't get excused from the middle of a trial unless you die or murder someone else, so I sweated through it. I was certain my left cyst, now larger than a golf ball, had burst and was draining its burning hellfire all inside of me.

me, the day that shit-ass cyst burst

So I begged for another appointment with my gyno, and let it be known that the pain was now constant and unending. No over the counter pain meds even touched the pain, and it only stopped hurting when I was lying flat on my back. After much bullshit, I went on disability until June 10, when my gyno scheduled my next ultrasound at his office, and could decide how to go from there. In the meantime, he also ordered a CT scan, because he wasn't convinced the pain was gynecological, or if it was, it was endometriosis outside of my lady parts. Many days of bullshit later, I saw a general doc the day before my disability ended, my first with a general doc (a doc that had recently started treating my mum), and told him everything, in case the issue wasn't gynecological and he had to take over. Smash cut to the next day, when the gyno just said with a knowing smile that my issue wasn't gynecological, so he wouldn't extend my disability. That ended that day. No warning. I was sitting across from him, clutching my side in pain, and asked what I was supposed to do because I still couldn't sit upright for an hour, let alone the eight I was expected to be chained to my desk every day. He told me to ask my general doc to extend disability, and see you in a year, don't let the door hit you.

how my doctor shut me down

So I went outside, furious at being left in the lurch with no warning, and called the primary care doc's office and asked if he could please extend disability leave and pay, since the pain was still there, I'd just been to urgent care 3 times in the past two weeks due to hallucinating, dehydration, and vomiting to the point that my fucking toes were curling with the strain of my body going apeshit over this. How was I supposed to just waltz into work the next morning, magically all better? The receptionist said she'd ask him, but he'd only seen me once, so probably not. (The second gyno, who had written my notes and started disability, had only seen me once when he started excusing me, but felt comfortable doing so because he could clearly see my pain, and my previous medical history. So already I called bullshit.) I kept calling out of work, with no paid time left, and letting them know I was working with disability to extend the leave.

a prisoner of my anger!

From June 10 until yesterday, July 15, I have been trying to get the primary care doctor to continue my leave so I can at least get a reduced pay through disability, enough to mostly cover rent and bills, and job security. I called his office so much I used up my 300 minutes last month and had to top off my phone, something that's never happened. I had a colonoscopy, endoscopy, two ER visits with bloodwork, another CT scan, and x-rays, and a consultation with an orthopedic doctor who requested an MRI to check for torn ligaments/tendons or muscle damage or an aneurysm, the only other possibilities once GI issues had been ruled out. My insurance denied the MRI claim. And finally, yesterday, the primary care doc quit denying me trying to book appointments and dodging my calls and ignoring my callback requests, and sat with my mum and me for an hour to talk it all out. He basically explained in excruciating detail that he is never going to bother submitting all of my medical records (that I drove the fuck over to his office and gave to his receptionist so he and disability would have complete records of all my urgent care, ER, and specialist visits), because he knows for certain that my claim will be denied. He said it doesn't matter how I complain about it and how many tests I have, because that's subjective, and they only care about objective, and they're in the business of saying no. So all these tests that don't show anything glaringly wrong, like cancer, are telling disability insurance "deny this bitch." It doesn't matter that I've been scrambling to do everything in my limited power to try and find the source of this pain so we can get rid of it. They only care that it's not diagnosed already, and because he hasn't done that, he said he can't even sign a paper saying "yes, I see she's disabled from work" because he can't prove my pain empirically.

my doctor, fucking every point I brought up

So long, tear-filled conversation short, even after my mum broke down in tears (which made me cry as I was lying on the exam table, squirming in pain, and couldn't sit up) and said that I'm not the same person anymore and can't even get my own groceries because I have to run home to lie down and curb the pain, I can't do shit and absolutely will not get disability. My claim expired today, July 16, due to lack of any medical documentation, because the doctor isn't going to bother sending it. The only recourse I have, he said, is to file for Family Leave, the federally mandated unpaid time off when you're out of whatever sick leave your employer may give to you, and hope someone finds what's wrong with me and fixes it in the 12 week grace period that gives me. Once those 12 weeks are up, if I'm not back at work every day, I'm fired. I will lose my car (which is leased at a discount through my employer, otherwise I couldn't afford it), my studio apartment that I can barely afford, and my insurance. I'll also have to defer my student loan payments, making it more impossible to pay them off ever in my lifetime. No one will want to hire me because there is a definite bias against people that have been fired, and how could I even get another job if I'm still debilitated to the point that I cannot sit or stand for extended periods of time? I doubt I'll ever have another job with benefits like this one. I've had plenty of jobs over the years, and often worked full-time, but thanks to loopholes, have never had a job with insurance before now.

me, all the time now

So...I'm fucked. I had my dad drop off my Family Leave paperwork at work today (because we're not supposed to be on site if we're on leave, or even not scheduled), hopefully staying the execution for a bit. Whether it happens or not, I can't really feel anything emotionally anymore. The constant pain coupled with the constant stress of wondering if today is the day I get the "you're fired" call, and being too afraid to collect my mail in case they tell me in a letter, and wondering how I'll pay my rent and how much longer I can go before being homeless, has just worn me to nothing. This coming from an American citizen, college educated, who works for one of the largest corporations in the US (for now). I don't even know what to do anymore. It's just marking time until I die, there is no hope anymore. When this first started and I began to hear all the things my pain isn't, I'd joke "it'd be easier to just step in front of a bus and let the coroner find out what was wrong." Except it's not a joke anymore. I really feel like the only way to get out of this mess is to stop living. I will never be able to pull ahead, to move on to something better, and have the American Dream life. Fuck, I'd be lucky to even keep a studio apartment with no heat or air conditioning, and have enough paid time off from a job and extra money to even go on a short vacation ever again. And that's best case scenario, with the assumption that I keep my job and go back until it's shipped out of state. Oh, did I forget to mention that Rick Perry poached my company away from California? Yeah, he did. At least if I could stay until they move, I'd get a severance package. Now that's looking impossible.

why I can't sleep anymore

In conclusion, all this has just proved beyond a doubt that I'm not in control of my own life. When something in my body went wrong, it just pulled back the curtain on my delusion of independence and showed that really, I'm not a person and I don't matter. SCOTUS has been driving that point home pretty well lately, too. If I'm not an ass in a seat performing a repetitive task, never leaving my desk until my 8 hours are up for the day, then I have no purpose in life and am thrown out with the garbage, and a new body is put in my seat. Human beings don't matter anymore. Damaged human beings are worse than garbage in this country. Probably the most good I can do now is to gather up all those painkillers I've been prescribed, the ones that do nothing for my pain, and take them all at once. Then, finally, the pain will stop, I'll be free of never-ending stress and threats, and the insurance company and my employer won't have me listed in their liability column. Everyone wins.

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[helstone-blog-blog]

Too Common for the Common People

I've got a problem with Pulp: A Film About Life, Death and Supermarkets. Actually, I haven't seen the film yet, but therein lies the problem: I live in the US, and the people in charge of promoting and distributing this film couldn't spare a fuck for the US if they had all the fucks in the universe.

I'm a big, huge, unabashed Pulp addict, and have been for many years. Let's go with "the majority of my life," since it's accurate. I love Pulp, own all the albums, have gradually collected the 180 gram vinyls and the original pressings, and of course saw them as much as I could when they reunited through 2011-2012. I scrimped and saved and went without so I could do the SS Coachella to Jamaica and be there for Pulp's last live show (maybe ever). They mean so much to me.

So of course, when this film was announced, there was massive excitement here, and amongst some of my dearest friends, whom I've met because of Pulp. We eagerly watched the announcements rolling out, hated that we couldn't be at the SXSW premiere, and rejoiced when the film picked up distributors - including a US distribution deal with Oscilloscope, supposedly. We all watched enviously as the UK had a huge premiere event in Sheffield where the entire band and local colour walked the pink carpet, which was simultaneously broadcast in theatres across the UK so as many fans as possible could participate at the same time. Even now, the UK is enjoying lots of screenings, and is currently taking orders for special edition DVDs, Blu-ray, and digital downloads.

Here's what the US have:

And as far as those tied with the film are concerned, that's all we're ever going to get. Oh, there's one screening coming up in LA, but it was never promoted by the film's people at all: not on Twitter, or Facebook, and only slapped into a huge list of upcoming worldwide screenings on the website after it had sold out. Pulp the band and even the venue itself didn't promote this event. "So how did it sell out so fast, with no Pulp fans knowing about it?" you ask? Haha, you must be new to LA. People have season passes and know people, snatching up all music-related events so they have a new place to loudly talk and stare at their phones. Going to events is a status symbol and bragging right to so many, which means fans either get the shaft completely, like in this instance, or we're stuck in the very back, unable to see anything over the fedoras and bros constantly getting up to grab another PBR. But that's a different rant for a different time, the point is NO LA Pulp fans knew about this screening until it was much too late, and no additional dates are being added. Our one date doesn't have anyone from the film participating anyway. A friend found out about two New York screenings, one which will be attended by director Florian Habicht, the other by Jarvis Cocker, but he only found out through the Coachella message board. And they found out through Brooklyn Vegan. No one associated with the film or the band has announced the screenings yet, and I doubt they ever will.

I posted a disappointed message on the film's Facebook page last month when I found that the LA screening was sold out, and someone running their account responded, promising they would look to see if a ticket could be found for me. That's the only thing I've ever heard from them, of course no follow up since. They don't even respond to US/LA fans now, so I'm responding to them, telling them there's no hope for LA, and for the foreseeable future, the US isn't getting any DVD. They don't respond to any of my tweets, either, but will retweet UK fans gushing about the screenings they've seen, or proudly announcing their pre-orders of the DVDs they will be receiving next week.

So why the big FUCK YOU to your American fans, Pulp people? You've made some efforts and responses to other countries, but for the most part you're solely fixated on the UK and making it very clear that they're the only fans that really matter to you. Obviously, Pulp is a British band, and Pulp: A Film About Life, Death and Supermarkets was filmed in the UK, but that's grossly neglecting Pulp's overlying message that's drawn in fans from around the world: we're mis-shapes and misfits together. I guess the people involved in the film really do believe that only English people deserve to enjoy Pulp, and the rest of the world is too common for their film.

ETA: Just after tweeting a link for this, the Pulp film people sent this:

Still no word on why they refuse to book screenings, or refuse to let the fans know about the few the US is getting. Oscillosope never responded to emails from myself and my business partner, sent months back when their role as US distributors was announced. We had written to ask about US screenings and merchandising opportunities, and offered our services as an event promotion company to help put on a screening for LA and promote the film ahead of DVD release. Oscilloscope hasn't mentioned Pulp anywhere on their website or social media since April, when they mentioned the fact that they had picked up US distribution rights. That's it.

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I don't get it

Sarah Palin gets restraining orders against a guy sending her parents mean emails, and the guy's father, and yet I can't get a restraining order against my next door neighbor for yelling death threats into my bedroom window and having his friends demand I come outside so they can jump me? I didn't even ask for the stay-away option, simply that he keep his mouth shut and not harass us. But the court told me no today. Meanwhile, I guess blocking an email address is just too hard and emotionally taxing - way harder than the constant stress and fear of having someone lurking outside and watching your bedroom habits.

Not being rich and famous in America sure sucks.

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Look out, it's a trap!

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Dear friends,

When you send me a link to a photographer's website for a specific reason, letting me know that you're naked on the main page would be nice. I know we're friends and we've gone skydiving and scuba diving together, but some warning before seeing your tits unexpectedly would still be nice. Especially when I'm at work. Much appreciated!

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I'm so fucking sick of the Republicans. "We're going to default on loans unless you say all the rich people can keep their money AND you kill public healthcare and let the poor people starve, BLEARGH!"

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Aww, you guys, I found Jerri Blank's little sister!

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I'm such a dork. I saw this and immediately thought "Tenth Doctor!"

christinahaberkern:

Argyle Socks by Brent Couchman

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I like how Google Translate's home page says they can translate over 50 languages simultaneously, yet 5 of the 24 examples are French, and another 6 are just plain old German. If that's Google's repertoire, then perhaps they'd like to hire me as a translator? I'm in the midst of an internship with a translating company and I do French, German and English, so that's roughly half of what they've got to offer. I should make BANK.

Also, since I'm looking into attending the Sorbonne instead of the horrifically expensive AUP, I've got some more time to waste in LA. More French, and I'm seriously considering starting Russian. FEAR MEEEEEEEE.

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huh

As it turns out, vowing to stay in bed all day is the best thing I've ever done. I applied for an internship with a translation company, and within half an hour they replied and asked for an interview tomorrow morning. I feel like this is the first time my academic achievements actually mean something to someone other than myself.

... but no matter how smart I am, I still can't get a job as a bartender. WTF, world.

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Look, all I want is a guy that looks/acts/sounds like Jarvis and is as clever and talented as him. Is that so fucking much to ask?

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Ugh, I miss that wicked little grin so much! When he smiled at me for the first time I finally knew what it meant to melt into a puddle.