drunken telephone
Saturday January 31st 2004, 5:29 pm
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So I made a drunken telephone call last night. A call I very emphatically should not have made. Not that I remember, particularly, what I said. But I know that I shouldn’t have called, shouldn’t have let my drunken staggering self pick up a deadly weapon. How to move on, move at all, if I lurch backwards when vulnerable?

Another office party. Free booze all around. The boss, an American entrepeneur who sold his holdings and ended up here, quite the polymath. We talked books – and he’s remarkably well read – math, physics, politics. A damned fine discussion, but one that left me oddly cold. Not often that I meet people like that; still less common that I don’t like them. But I talked and I drank and I danced. Danced alone, as always. Not quite as catchy, though, ‘he danced alone’.But true.

And today, quiet and hungover and still vulnerable. Watching My So Called Life episodes didn’t help any, either. And now supposed to go out to a film with a friend. yet somehow I’ve gotten used to dancing alone, to being alone. But I thought that was my complaint….

Friday January 30th 2004, 10:00 am
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So, sometimes I’m lazy. Seriously lazy. Now, for example. As I sit here, writing this damned entry, rather than hopping in the shower, hopping onto the Tube, and commuting across the damn city because my damn temp job has temporarily relocated itself to a damned inconvenient place.

And I’m late, of course. Pressing snooze every ten minutes. For an hour. Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake to the first 10 or 15 seconds of Bjork’s Play Dead set rather too loud? It ain’t pretty, people, trust me. What happened to the me that could actually wake up? Could be fucked to go to work? I’m back in the lazies, here.

On the other hand, you try listening to telemarketing calls 8 hours a day for 2 weeks. You wouldn’t exactly be leaping out of bed, either. Hmm. I guess this particular stalling tactic is done. Time to start hopping through those various ‘damns’. Sigh….

whore part ii
Friday January 30th 2004, 12:08 am
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It’s getting bad. I’m befriending people I already knew through the mystery chick. I’m whoring myself, really. Amazing what vaguely sad and vaguely lonely can lead to….

Thursday January 29th 2004, 10:12 pm
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So I followed up a discussion with a friend last weekend, and have now whored myself to Friendster. Which is neither here nor there. I added my friend to my ‘friend’ list, and he dutifully confirmed to this fascistic site that I knew him.

Enter nostalgia. Who do I know on this thing? Who do I know lame enough geek enough freak enough bored enough to be here? A number of surprises, I thought. But then. The friendster whore.

She had the name. And no way to find information about without just allowing Friendster to send her an email. And, look, she allowed me to add her to my ‘friends’ list. But you know what? I haven’t the faintest clue who this 31 year-old Texan-born gay computer visual effects chick working in West Hollywood is. And now I’m a friendster whore, as I’ve gone from having a mere 1,678 friends at n+1 removes, to having some 57,347 ‘friends’. And the time I can waste with that….well, it’s not really worth correcting the error, is it? I mean, she looks as if we’d get along just fine, should our circles ever intersect.

And then, the great circle began. About four removes along known and semi-known pathways, beginning with my ‘real’ friend, and suddenly these friendster whores started intersecting. That is deeply disturbing. It’s as if the computer literate world has become even more incestuous than it is. And now, the ultimate sin, I blog about it.

Sorry, I’ll shut up now. But there have been those accusing me: 1) of whinging too much, and 2) not writing enough recently. All I can say is, it’s essentially an either/or proposition. Deal with it.

wmd 404
Monday January 26th 2004, 8:58 am
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In passing, perpetually
Wednesday January 21st 2004, 3:52 pm
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Temp work. A truly mysterious phenomenon. Although attending the SkyTV Christmas party, replete with ice sculptures, ice bar, and bumper cars, was amusing, my current role as an outsourced telemarketing quality control person is, well, a fucking bore. But also a trip. ‘This call may be monitored’. That’s me. I only started this shit yesterday, so the live monitoring has made up less of my work than the pre-recorded successful sales calls. But the possibilities for the funnies are popping up in betwen the tedium of telemarketing to Scottish widows, idiots, and the imbeciles who actually talk to telemarketers. ”Hi, I’m calling from XXXX, do you have a few minutes?’ ‘You know, I’m revising for an exam for this afternoon, so I’m sorry, but you have to fuck off now and not call me back’. You can’t make this shit up. Well, you can. But I’m not. And I’m sitting here, writing this, listening to Bruce sell telephone services to Gary. Bring back the BT monopoly, please.

death and taxes
Wednesday January 21st 2004, 12:07 am
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Monday January 19th 2004, 12:13 pm
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It’s not a race. I have to keep reminding myself of that. This is not a race. So why am I absolutely gutted? Why do I feel like I’ve lost? Married friends. Friends with kids. Friends with academic jobs. And me? Coming out the wrong side of a long-term dead-end relationship. Finishing the degree, supposedly in sight, looking impossibly far away. This despite the fact I’ve been working, writing even. Can I get there from here?

To start up a piece of software on my friends computer, you have to set the date back two years – January, 2002 – in order to fool a beta with a date expiration. January, 2002, still living in the flat on Iffley Road, one year into the D.Phil. Doing what? I don’t know. The years rather a blur of work done, work not done, people seen and not seen. I don’t seem to have gotten anywhere, progressed in any way. I’m just here, unfinished, alone.

I know that I could finish but fucking soon if I had a deadline, a fall term in a new city to look forward to. But I have this, instead, a blank fucking horizon. No future, no promise, just this. ‘It’s just a ride’, she sings, not ‘It’s just a race’, but I’m not scoring any style points on the way. A rather complete failure from an aesthetic persepctive, in fact. Leaving me what? Unfinished, alone.

A crisis of confidence? I suffered that long ago. The headstrong faith in my own intelligence, in my own talents, my own work, ground down on the grindstones of other people’s sundry and various successes. The edge blunted, not just by age, but by inexorable unforgiving time. Leaving me, edge blunted, unfinished, alone. And, seemingly, last in a race I stopped running but bitterly resent losing, a race that’s not a race, a ride with no ending in sight.

Monday January 19th 2004, 9:15 am
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Jealousy is an ugly thing. Especially before I’ve had the first cup of coffee of the day. But there you have it. I’ll bite back the envy and jealousy, suppress the screams of why-not-me, and simply congratulate an old and beloved friend for getting an academic job.

Maybe some coffee will help.

fiery death
Saturday January 17th 2004, 2:35 pm
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