Aggro Femme

Yeah, so I basically have this website just so no one else gets aggrofemme.com. Aside from that, and its use as an archive, it’s basically worthless.

Here’s the tip for the day. For the year, actually. For the ever.

Most of the time, it is NOT quicker to go through the drive-thru. COME.INSIDE.kthx.

***Edit – February 14, 2007***

I no longer care what you do. I don’t work there anymore. =D

I am going to return to speaking my mind without much forethought whatsoever. I hope I get over the reaping what you sow phase soon though, and become able to roll with the punches I throw.

You’ve been warned. ^.^

If you’ll excuse me, I have to find out how to get all these feet in my mouth. Man I hate that idiom…

Yeah, so the water heater is leaking into my living room, my fuel filter is covered in garbage which leaves me sputtering and dying in the middle of the farkin’ highway (and whomever honked at me, while my car was dead, in the middle of a five lane, FUCK YOU), I work tomorrow, and no one will take my car to the shop to get a new filter. So there’s that bullshit. And here’s another little pearl.

Customer: I want this, this and this. And I’m going to pay with this giftcard.

Me: We don’t accept those gift cards here.

Customer: Why not?! *eyeroll eyeroll whine whine smirk*

Me: Our store doesn’t issue them, therefore we don’t accept them.

Okay look, it’s a gift card. You reload it with money. At the store they ARE received at, it still costs the same damned amount of money. If what you want is $4.01, it’s going to take $4.01 off your gift card. So just crack open your wallet and pay me with good ol’ fashioned cash.

mmmmMUH.

Studying the effects of the internet upon sociology and psychology has been an interest of mine since I “plugged in,” but that’s another post, though somehow related. There’s also that new “infomania” thing. But this post is about cell phones.

I generally despise cell phones and the reality of being reached anywhere within reception 24/7. I do enjoy the privacy they afford me, what with not having to share a message receival machine with several people. And for the purpose of not offending all of you, I enjoy talking to my friends.

I had a discussion with someone about my avoidance of phone calls.

Me: “Let them leave a message.”

Them: “You should answer the phone.”

Me: “Why? The fact that they are calling me doesn’t oblige me to stop what I’m doing and answer the phone. And I don’t want to talk to/hang out with/do something for them at the moment anyway.”

Them: “Then you should tell them that.”

I have a feeling this didn’t happen with landlines. People called and left messages, or you answered the phone if you wanted. It seems to me that the fact that we can now be reached anywhere at any time necessitates that we respond anywhere at any time.

And that’s just teh dumb.

1. Almost everyone around me is either breaking up or getting married. It’s that time of year. I’m going to be an old cat lady.

2. If you drive a gas-guzzling army tank, DO NOT BITCH about oil prices.

3. Women are dumb.

4. I’m going to post this and I’m not sure why…

5. There was a boy in the bookstore today reading Neruda. Life is (not) complete.

6. I REALLY need to fill my prescription.

7. There’s more to this post but my subconcious ate it.

So a posthumous release from Johnny Cash came out a week ago, American V. I’m reading Cash’s autobiography, plus a book written about his spiritual journey, The Man Comes Around, by Dave Urbanski (reviews to follow not-so-closely). So this cd… depressing. And from what I’ve read, Cash usually liked to keep his music simple, and this is rather embellished for what I gather are his tastes. BUT! I still like it. He sings “If You Could Read My Mind” by Gordon Lightfoot. It’s my favorite. The latter book contains a quote by a Tom Dearmore, taken from an article he wrote for New York Times Magazine entitled “First Angry Man of Country Singers”: “He is singing what’s inside of him, searching in a haunting way for a note that isn’t there.” I LOVE this quote, it describes his voice gorgeously.

Rewind several hours:

I was reading The Man Comes Around at 3am at IHOP. My waiter had dreads and we discussed books, Johnny Cash, road trips, Australia, and the spanish language. It was fun, nice, something you read about. I left him a $10 tip.

So here I am, up at 3:45am when I have to be up at 6am for work.

I had a dream that involved the inhabitants of a nursing home, a very large foot, I mean car-sized, work, my mother, a girl I haven’t thought about in years, and John Travolta. For some reason we all decided to take a tour of some sort of underground aquarium, and there were bengal tiger-sharks and such other weirdness. Apparently we were discussing how we shouldn’t be there over girl-I-haven’t-thought-about-in-years’ loud milk steaming noises, talking about how we’ve found clues that have led us to believe there’s a killer on the loose. Then John Travolta pops up, scaring the crap out of us, and we find out it’s true. Then I wake up. Hi Nature, what’s new.

I finished the book I’ll be reviewing fairly soon, and read some Dylan Thomas. I’m not sure if I want to start Johnny Cash’s autobiography, a novel by Kathy Reichs (she’s the inspiration for a show I watch called “Bones” about a forensic anthropologist) or a Kay Scarpetta novel by Patricia Cornwell. I have so many books going anyway. Annie Dillard, some current affairs thing, Donald Miller, “Manic Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament,” which is good, but reads like stereo instructions (five bucks to whomever gets that reference… not really, but c’mon, play anyway).

Let’s try this sleep thing for a few more hours, shall we?

No one ever remembers my birthday.