duck-shaped pain

Tonight: go to second session of above seminar. Read a book. Answer a list of questions regarding said dull, dreary, badly written book. I really want to like this book. It's about a topic (American utopian communities in the 19th century) that I'm really interested in, but the way it's written keeps getting in the way. The author uses 13 words where one will do, and has a Grudge on top of that. Sometimes the latter can be fun, if only to see how many different ways an author can bring up their own personal complaints in the course of a book. But it's pretty bad when you have read and reread pages many times just to glean the essential information you need from them. Bah!

What I did at work today:

Worked on and hopefully completed a very annoying document that I have been working on for a month. This should have been done a long time ago, and would have, had I been in completely in charge of it. But no one where I works (including me, I admit) has any clear vision of what this document should ultimately be like, and then there's the odd subplot where the wife of one of my coworkers decided to come up with her own version of the documents (my boss' response: "Well, maybe she has some good ideas.") and in the end, it all adds up to a mess. But I believe it is now done. This is a marketing piece, and may prove to be crucial to the sinking ship that my place of employment is turning into. But the process of putting it together amply illustrates what is wrong about working there.

Listened as C. told me about some woman humping her leg at the bar the other night.

Ate pistachio nuts.

Wrote the aforementioned resume.

Looked at pictures of this shirt for a long time.

Left at noon.

I took a nap this afternoon, and had a very odd dream.

Next to my house, underneath my window, was a very small brick house. The "people" who lived in this house were flying people, who rode around the skies wearing scuba gear. These people's jobs were to harvest people as they slept. They would suck all the air out of their victims and then place these victims in little tiny bags, which they took back to their house. In the house was a factory, where they made ballpoint pens. Each pen would be filled with one of the victims, and that pen, for the rest of its days, would have someone inside it, trying to get out. If a pen disappeared or got lost, that meant that the person inside it had finally managed to escape. Exploding pens were the result of that person getting angry, and if you ran out of ink, it was because the captive inside it had stolen the ink for their own purposes. In my dream, they were coming to get me, and the flying scuba gear people were screaming outside my window, beating on it to try and get in.

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