You Are The Only Thing That Matters.

I am altogether having no more of it. None of it. The frigid weather is one thing anyone with a reasonable collection of knitwear could look beyond, even relish if one went in for that type of thing. The lumbering white fatties that congregate in entirely inappropriate places is quite another. This city has more than its share of fatties. One could just as easily plop this place down in the mid-west and no one would be the wiser.

The number of disabled, either legitimate or vanity cripples is also mind boggling. It seems only three out of four people in this city are able to ambulate without the assistance of some motorized device, cane, or rolling platform. One would be excused for thinking American's are an absolutely broken people. They succeed in very little other than slowing down public transportation. In Los Angeles, the only time public transport is delayed is when someone jumps in front of it, or is pushed.

And the co-temps... Jesus Christ. Where do I start? I think I already have, a few posts back. Luckily the up-talking valley girl who would ask things like whether blood oranges are vegan has bailed. Took a job as a public defender somewhere so the indigent defendants of some backwater county in southern Washington are completely and irretrievably fucked, but my mornings are now devoid of swirling blather.

It has been replaced, however, by an altogether inappropriate amount of Type-A gunning. Poor little things who never had a job before doing everything they can to stand out, and accomplishing little else than annoying everyone around them. The hyper-competitive Korean woman whom I've just taken to calling 'Nut-Rage' sent no fewer than 16 emails to our boss (who was really just trying to work from home to get away from us) because she, it's so hard to commit these words to permanency, couldn't find enough work to keep her busy.

There's also a tee-total snark with chunky glasses and stupid bag that has decided to be completely uncivil to me for reasons I don't understand although I suspect it's because I've decided not to take this temp job as seriously as him. I've decided not to make a spectacle of myself trying to parlay this into some permanent job I will end up hating because, well let's see, I did that once before and I hated it.

I can't revisit the unshapely lesbian. The only good thing I can say about her is that she has mercifully decided to occupy the majority of her time elsewhere, doing other things, which of course I would do if it weren't entirely too cold to leave the office.

So the remaining three weeks will be spent filling out Buzzfeed surveys, reading Blind Gossip entries, Yahoo comments and bemoaning the future of humanity. I will do all of this, but I completely refuse to take any of this shit, or myself for that matter, seriously.

Happy New Year Bitches.

Everyone In This World.

Almost made the bus this morning. Almost. I ran, in shoes which were not quite up for the challenge. It was below freezing so I really did give it my all, but alas, no. I waited in the cold, sent off a few rage tweets to King County Metro. I deleted them once I realized that the bus I missed would get me to the office before my security badge would activate the elevator. Providence? Doubtful. I passed a penny on the street and I did not pick it up. Despite what the adage says it's gross.

In the office someone is eating something that momentarily made me think I forgot to put on deodorant. I subtly checked and I'm in the clear.

There is absolutely nothing for me to do at work except search the internet. I clicked here and there and before I knew it I was reading something on Politco dot com. Not quite as gross as picking up a penny on the street, not quite as grasping and desperate as Salon dot com, but so very close that I just had to step away from the console and I think about what I had done.

I may binge on Downton Abbey later, but will need a couple more cups of coffee before I can even manage the PBS app.

I've given serious thought to drafting a memo directed at the ladies of the office titled something like: Knee High Boots - Not Doing Quite What They Did 6 Years Ago, but given the frigid temperatures even I have to admit that if I had them I may stunt them. Not really. Knee high boots are the single biggest annoyance in my life right now, and I don't care who knows it.

Flavours Of Surprise.

‘Thought Leader’ was the only thing my hair was telling me this morning as I spent a few moments to espy myself in the mirror before escaping into the rain drenched streets of Seattle.

As I walked my mind was clear, but for the lingering feeling that the bipedal oaf in front of me should either speed the fuck up or learn to walk in a straight fucking line. It’s bagel day at work and I was not about to be outflanked on the plains.

Bagel day is the bomb if you get there early before the swag has been picked over and there’s half bits of rye strewn all about. It is strictly BYO-Vegan Cream Cheese which I had done so that was a tender mercy. Not having to share a shmear and all makes bagel day all the more very.

Having a bagel is really the only thing I have to do this morning. They haven’t found actual work for me to do, but I've been told by someone not even remotely in charge that those who may be more or less in charge of one thing or another are confident that some work should arise soon so I’m here, in a way wishing I had some capers to go with my bagel. The coffee maker is broken, so the cheap Keurig piece of shit is all I have, and I’m sure there will be more things to upend my faith in humanity before the day is out, but in the meantime I think I can just sit back and become more acquainted with Theo James. Have you? Do do.  

So the Where's My Bus app which proved so reliable and helpful when I was living in Ballard has turned out to be utter and relentless shite on Capitol Hill. This morning it simply lied to my face. To my face. Making reference to a bus that was arriving at that very moment which was either completely fucking invisible or entirely non-existent. In either case, I was lied to.

Then I get to the office and the internet stops working just as I'm really digging into an interesting article about the origins of chicken fried steak. The disappointment is palpable.

They installed cable in my apartment, something I have not had for 4 years, but watching Coronation Street is 95% of the reason I am up here so cable installation I got. The problem is that when Coronation Street isn't on I fall into an HGTV hole which is as inescapable as it is lurid. Some bobo Kardashian flunkie telling the camera how she isn't trendy, but timeless, all the while clutching a handful of aluminum flowers. Accent walls that make your house look like it was built sideways, throw pillows that look like medical waste, and if I hear the words 'open-concept' one more mother fucking time...

It has to stop. So I've partitioned off a block of time today where I will try to find some nice Christmas movies to watch. They can be such a tonic during these trying times. That and adjusting my spam filter so I actually see all the free shipping offers which ordinarily don't mean shit to me.

Follow The Point Of Light.

The unshapely lesbian to my left traipsed into the office yesterday, mere moments away from the four day weekend, and decided to make what I can only imagine she thought was a witty comment about my Free City Sherpa hat. Comparing it to an ugly Christmas sweater as she began to peel layer after layer of black, gray and charcoal North Face fleece. I had heretofore been demonstrating a somewhat generous level of restraint when it came to commenting on my co-temps outfits. Which is to say I hadn't made any comment whatsoever. I didn't think that was what we were here for, but now that I've been schooled I can't wait to start every day with comments like: 'Well Good Morning, and what animal lab did you eco-terrorize last night, pray tell.'

The toothless man on the the number ten bus had already at this point made an altogether appalling spectacle of asking me what kind of book I was reading. This was after he asked, and I pretended not to here over my quietly pulsating Cabaret Voltaire ear buds, and then he squatted down to read the front cover, then finally tugging in an almost uncomfortably intimate way on my jacket and asking. 'What kind of book is that?'

'The kind one hopes to read quietly.' is what I had tried to say, but in all honesty all I could get out was 'It is just a book', combined with my best withering 'Why don't you just go die somewhere' glare while firmly replacing my ear bud.

Not the best start to my first day back from Thanksgiving break and Seattle is certainly not putting its best foot forward on my account, but I have to say this whole business of being able to have small quantities of cannabis delivered to your front door... Big yes.