what the bloggery

Down and down and down. Into the abyss, as I like to think. Further and further into the pit. The narrow stairs are crumbling and cracked in some places, brown and algae-slick in others. It’s very windy, and the air is so cold. The first stretch of stairs takes me through the overgrown brush; through patches of blackberry bushes, branches overgrown, leaves glistening gold in scant light, thorny vines crawling wild and bold. The second stairs take me to the bridge, where in the distance I can see the city, and the city is made of light. It burns in the dark.

The last staircase is silent. The brush is wild and dense all around yet I cannot see it, not anymore. I can feel the wind and I can see stars retreating very far away, and for one moment, that’s all. Me alone with the sky and the steps under my feet, the wind and the thorns, and my heart is full. I ache for nothing.

 -

This is the kind of shit I think about when I’m on my way to work. I haven’t done any concrete writing in months. I sit around and I do some thinking. An awful lot of thinking. Mostly I miss writing fanfiction, because fanfic fucking rules, even if it makes you kind of a lamer to admit to doing it. I mean, who feels the warm surge of pride when they tell all their new friends, “Yeah, I spend most of my free time writing erotica about some guy from a Japanese cartoon blowing Johnny Depp”?

(For the record, I may have pulled that example out of my ass, but I’ll bet you it exists somewhere.)

Lately, though, as hard as I may try to focus on my own characters, my mind wanders and I end up thinking about characters like, say, Deadpool and Nightwing and Iron Man and Batman and Captain America and Hulkling and Blue Beetle and ASSGUARDIAN—er, Wiccan—and oh yeah, Tim Drake!Robin. My point is this: I REALLY LIKE COMICS. I love Marvel and I love DC and I have spent way too much of my income the last few months at The Dreaming….Yet, somehow, not enough. My shelf o’ comics is nothing in comparison to Nat-attack’s. I can’t wait for ECCC (alternatively: ECx3 or the Easy Three), because last year there were at least four booths that did nothing but sell discount trades and older single issues. At the time, I glanced through some boxes, but I did not know what I was looking for. Now I do. Next year is going to fuckin’ rock.

Now let’s see, what am I reading lately…Ah, BLUE BEETLE.

(more…)

I seem to be responsible for setting up a party for a fellow in the office who is retiring. The kind of party where I have to reserve a whole restaurant and order food and drinks and oh my god what the—what is this—are they for real?

NO SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE SHIT.

…on the plus side, if I succeed at throwing this party, I mean. Wow. Maybe they’ll keep me full-time! D:

HELLO RESPONSIBILITY.

I seem to be employed again! For now. My agent at Talent Tree assigned me to a small company over in Queen Anne for the next six weeks, although there’s a possibility that if they like me (and I like them) that I could be hired on permanently. That’s some good fuckin’ news right there, as eight days of unemployment was eight days too long.  

(There was a weekend or two in there at some point, but those doesn’t count because they were WEEKENDS.)

So the environment is completely fucking different from the Bookstore. I am an honest-to-jeebus receptionist now in a very small security company. There are maybe twenty people who work here.

On my first day, the woman training me said this: “It can get pretty busy here, the phone might ring five, maybe twenty-five times–” 

“At the same time?” I gaped, and she burst out laughing. 

“No, no,” she said, “I mean all day.” 

Going from 1,000 calls a day to 25 calls a day…it’s sort of weird. 

I have discovered that in Corporate America, the amount of work you do is inversely proportionate to the amount you get paid. After three years at the Bookstore, I had so much work to do that I had to come in often on my days off just to finish everything. I had hundreds and hundreds of calls per day. I made 10 bucks an hour to do it. Here, however, in lovely Queen Anne? Shit, I’ve been here since 7:30 (it is just after 9) and I filed like, six folders and answered about ten phonecalls, and I made 12 dollars an hour to do it.  

Should that be exciting? I mostly feel guilty. I can’t tell if I’m too badass for this place or what. I mean, it’s really really lovely. The building is on Lake Union and everyone’s been incredibly nice to me. The commute is lame, but the view is astounding. Anyone here ever walked down Queen Anne hill towards the water while the sun’s coming up? Fuck me it is amazing.  

…Also it doesn’t hurt to mention that if I get hired here (permanently, mind) my pay rate automatically bumps to 13. Shit, son. I could deal with a little guilt.   

However, as I am now starting to feel really guilty, I will log off and find something work-related to do.