Thursday

A Week's Worth of Monologues: Thursday


Our teacup chihuahua friend was returned to her owner today, and has since moved out to her new home. We may never see her again.

My bed is no longer experiencing a record puppy infestation.

...I miss her smile.

Wednesday

A Week's Worth of Monologues: Wednesday

I am tired. I am getting sick. I do not want to walk my puppies.

Walking one puppy in the rain is annoying. Walking two...difficult. Walking three, especially when one of them is too small to walk anywhere without being trampled...ugh.

I am tired of having three puppies. Yes, You, Teacup Chihuahua who is not even really my puppy…I am tired of you. Because you see: you are not even really a dog. You are an illustration of genetic selection being taken too far, a cautionary tale, a miniature canine Frankenstein, if you will, that my Japanese roommate just happens to think is adorable. But you are not adorable. You are a malformed gerbil. Your eyes are the size of your skull…and your skull is the size of a walnut. Your bark is high pitched and annoying. You relentlessly pick fights with my dogs, and then I worry for your safety, because I’m sure that you’ll be eaten…and my dogs are not big dogs. My dogs are the size of newborn babies. You are not a baby…you are a fetus young enough to still be aborted. An ugly, brown fetus, with bulging eyes and a tale. How you exist is beyond me.

Tuesday

A Week's Worth of Monologues: Tuesday

The Evidence:

Coworker: “So how are you liking it here, Ivy?”

Ivy: “It’s been great! Everyone's been so nice and friendly, and I feel like I've made some good connections. I don’t want to seem cocky, though. Everyone could decide to hate me today. It could be bad. I could get punched.”

Coworker laughs: “What? No staff member's ever been punched!"

Ivy: “Seriously? No one's been punched, ever?”

Coworker (slightly concerned): “…Seriously.”

Ivy (incredulous): “…What’s the worst thing that’s happened to your staff here?”

Coworker: “I don't know...Oh, a few years back, someone was really mad and threw a mug at somebody’s head. It was pretty bad.”

Ivy: “Did it Hit them?”

Coworker: “No.”

Ivy (quietly, to self): “…Somebody threw a plate at my head two weeks ago..."

The Conclusion: I don't know if I'm going to fit in here.

Monday

A Week's Worth of Monologues: Monday

Five ways of getting to my new job this morning which would have been faster, easier, and safer than taking transit:

1. Walking

2. Riding my bicycle, without skill or experience, through the snow-laden streets

3. Hitch-hiking

4. Looking up how to teleport online, building a teleportation device powered by aluminum foil and prayer, trying and failing to use said teleportation device, walking

5. Assembling a dog sled with my enthusiastic but untrained three puppies at the helm (net weight: 25 lbs) while a squirrel carrying a hot dog runs in the opposite direction.

The city of Vancouver announced today that it will be preventing people from driving cars during the 2010 Olympics on major thoroughfares, in the hopes that they will responsibly choose public transit instead.

Well…fuck you.

Sunday

A Week’s Worth of Monologues: Sunday

Crap…I feel like crying. I’m such a girl. I hate being a girl. Except, I like the not having body hair…Eww, or facial hair. And I like being pretty...er...non-manish. Oooh, and doing my nails. But I hate crying. There is no excuse for it…so somebody yelled at you. So somebody else called you a bitch and a cunt and then threatened to hit you. So you left work at 12am in the bad part of town, and when you walked down the middle of the street to avoid a creepy man staggering on the sidewalk, a car up ahead did a U-turn to pull up beside you because they thought you were a hooker… Hmmm….well, okay, that part wasn’t great.

Work is angsty…why is work so angsty? Is it me? Am I burnt out? How does one know if they are burnt out…I don’t FEEL burnt out. I imagine that I would feel more dark, or bitter, or crispier…? But I guess the analogy only goes so far.

Maybe I’m realizing that, with my new job starting tomorrow, that my relationship with this job can only take me so far…and so I’m finding excuses to get upset so that the inevitable parting will be less painful, much like a teenager getting into screaming matches with his manic depressive mother before announcing he‘s ditching this dump to go live with his girlfriend Cheryl in her grandmother‘s basement…much like that.

Well, if that is the case, it’s a very nice thought of the part of my subconscious, but preparing to leave is a wee bit premature. I haven’t started the new job yet, and I’m only starting as a casual. There’s no guarantee of becoming full time…and who knows if I’ll actually like it, or be good at it, or if it will in any way be better than my old job…so, No. If that is what you’re doing, subconscious, then you are being ordered to cease and desist. I am repressing you. You are henceforth repressed.

...No, thank you, sir, I would not like any heroin. It was kind of you to offer, though.