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2000-04-11 I feel like every few entries I talk about some horrible affliction that's making my every moment on the planet a torturous, grueling physical nightmare. I will, therefore, mention only that my hangnail only hurts when I use the space bar. Lest you think I'm a hypochondriac or something. Actually, my HMO sent a book last year of the American Medical Association Guide to Your Family's Symptoms. I read its list of symptoms and associated medical advice like a Chinese food menu, picking one from this column, one from this column. "Intestinal gas! I get intestinal gas! Must be ulcerative colitis! I have a stiff neck, dislike bright light and am confused and sleepy! I've got...[consults chart]...Meningitis!" People like me shouldn't have access to this sort of material. This is how cases of Munchausen's disease start. I don't know if anyone really should read the angsty portion of what I started last week, so you get this meta-entry about it. I had a minor panic attack over my job, over a comment someone made to my boss about projects my group -- and often me in particular -- that are late. I took it way too personally, when it was mostly an emotional statement instead of one based in fact. I think I was a little too tired, also. It doesn't help that technology stocks are doing poorly right now. Since that's the indicator everyone uses to determine what a company is worth. And well, work occupies such a big portion of my life. I should be working right now. Brought work home with me. I don't feel like it, though. So I won't. The Boyfriend consented to come with me to see All About My Mother, which won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film. He enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. I actually teared up, which probably wasn't too hard given the week previous. I've been a fan of Pedro Aldomovar's films since I saw Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. Have you seen the movie? Yes? Did I mention yet that I actually made a gaspacho last month? My recipe, however, left out the barbituates. Would have been better with them. I wasn't really happy with the way it came out -- I cheated and used canned tomatoes. Bleah. Ruined. Though my Grautin Dauphinois turned out quite extraordinarily well, if I do say so myself. I had the worst sandwich ever at the conformity cafe today. Not only did I get onions on it -- and I despise raw onions on sandwiches -- but the avocado was mostly a large, hard plastic-like lump in the middle of both halves of the sandwich. I couldn't bite through, it was so hard. I feel better whining about it, but incredibly spoiled at the same time. It's a sandwich, Casey, lighten up. I've been following quite a few weblogs the past few weeks. It's strange (like Diaryland is strange to me sometimes) that these people know each other and have interpersonal relationships online. I barely maintain the few real-world relationships I have. Even with a public diary, I feel like I'm an incredibly private person. And I'm certainly not as outgoing as I once was. I envy people who can weblog/write every day. I have no follow-through when I try to do that. And do the daily bloggers/pitaists/diarists have lives and jobs too? Because I've never managed to balance them correctly. I might try a different way of logging. More details if I ever actually do it. I'm really approaching a meta-entry here. But I really enjoy reading blogs and diaries. I'm a little sad that some of my favorites aren't updating, some purposefully, some just because they faded away. Speaking of which, I'm fading. Time to go to bed -- before I fall asleep at the keyboard. So I'll end the ramble here. _Casey
2003-03-29 - Moving Notice |
