i start school at my mpub tomorrow, and i'm quite, quite excited. so much that i have that nagging worry that i'll set my alarm clock wrong -- the whole am/pm thing -- and i'll be embarassingly late for my first day of school. i should really get to bed and try to get some rest (if i can -- my body still isn't allowing me to get a decent sleep despite my being utterly exhausted); i'm already a half an hour late for my desired bedtime. ah well. at least i'll get to bed earlier than the kids at the paper will... they have a sixteen pager, new unfamilar software (quark 6) and when i left at 10, the fonts weren't working properly and barely any of the photos were done.

today, i was supposed to head out for a picnic at the last MOMpop of the summer with HT, but i ended up flaking out and staying for lunch at home (which my sweetie didn't end up cooking until 2:30). technically, it was my breakfast, as i hadn't eaten anything beforehand, anticipating always that, oh, lunch should come soon enough.

ugh.

HT just ended up dropping off some baguettes and running off to the park alone. i met up with him and HP (!) later on and we hung out for a bit and ate gelato. a much-needed respite from my hours in front of the computer trying to get LaTeX to compile properly.

i picked up a few zines, and dmac's story was in it, but mine was not. they'd forgotten about my submission, apparently, so here is the little vignette for the zine, themed 'work less/play':

Cliff has not taken a single day off in ten years.

His dedication has earned him the proud distinction of 'employee of the
month' eight months running, a streak that started when he took on those
extra shifts on the weekend. He did come perilously close to losing the
title a couple months back when his eight-year-old daughter had a piano
recital at school and really ramped up the pressure on him to attend.

He held firm, though. "Daddy's got to work," he told her. He was being a
good provider, he justified it to himself. After all, those piano lessons
don't pay for themselves, and besides, he's diligently saving up his RRSPs
for his retirement in twenty years. When he finally retires, there'll be
plenty of time to spend with the family, which, at the moment, rarely ever
sees him. They realize, surely, that some sacrifices have to be made.

No matter - he's made his office into a home away from home, complete with
a kitchenette, with an endless supply of coffee and cereal bars, as well
as a small medicine cabinet with the latest in over-the-counter antacids
to temper his nagging ulcer.

It's all worth it, though. He doesn't have anything else to brag about,
really - he never really got into the arts all that much and he isn't
about to take time off to work on his golf game. His spotless work record
is his badge of honour.

"Ten years, eh?" his coworkers marvel at the company Christmas party.
"Wow...I could never do that."

Cliff beams with pride and rubs his wrists. The Carpal-tunnel that comes
and goes is back again.

You are a modern-day hero, Cliff. We salute you.

***

tonight, JW picked me up and set me down in a cardboard box. then he tried to haul me around in said cardboard box. i was unplussed.

on my way home, a woman saw a wounded pigeon and began to talk to it in a soothing voice. 'hey there, sweetheart. are you okay? you're not flying away... are you okay?'

if i were that pigeon, i'd be all 'no i'm not, but there's nothing you can do about it, so why don't you just leave me the hell alone?'

***

anyway, to the batcave!

or, to bed.