It's funny, how something stupid can prey on your mind...
School's going okay--I guess I've got the same number of shitheads, I'm just more pissed off about jumping on them. I've already written my first referral, and I followed the bullshit train and made parent contact, and I have a tardy log started, and really, I'm ready to kick ass and take names. I may survive my chosen vocation after all.
I have a new laptop now!!! I can't write on it until we get it loaded with Microsoft Word:-( :-( :-( I don't know how to convey my total appreciation to my husband for getting me a laptop when the old one just dropped a mother board and barfed--and he even managed to save my files, so I can access pictures (some of them) and iTunes (sort of) on my Mac Notebook. I mean--Mate is wonderful--how can you argue with that? But I'm 30 pages away from finishing part I of BITTERMOON. It will be about 675 pages, and then I can start the revision process that makes it actually readable, and then I'll send it out... (You know who you are...) But I don't get Word for two weeks, and my story is boiling inside of me...it's sort of clausterphobic and I don't know how to dea. It's like being intellectually constipated...everything you need to finish the job is all gathered in the right place...I just have no where to put it. So I will eventually celebrate my wonderful, white, spiffy-looking computer, but right now it's a very abstract joy.
And now to the little thing that's sort of pissing me off. I'm in the employee lunch room, and a colleague I don't normally get to talk to starts asking me about the books--I'm pleasantly embarrassed. I answer her questions, and she's interested, and I'm terribly flattered, and then suddenly the same asshole who was reading my 2nd book out loud in the staff room last year looks directly at me and shouts "VAMPIRE BLOW JOB." To which I look at him and say, "What?" Because, quite frankly, I can't believe my new department head (who has, in all other ways, been extremely professional, self-actualized, and surprisingly nurturing for a guy who claims not to have any of that crap in him at all) has just become, in one stupid locker room moment, such a total and complete fuckhead. He laughs and says, "That's the way to get her attention," to the person next to him, and I turn to the woman I'm talking to and we roll our eyes.
And secretly, in the part of me that only emerges to be interviewed in the shower by a shampoo bottle with John Stewart's hair-do, I want to kick ass. No, not HIS ass, just kick ass. I want my books to soar, to get picked up and sold in every fucking Wal-Mart and Target from here to Bumfuck Egypt and it's cousin, South of Fucking Yemen, and I WANT that interview with the REAL John Stewart, because deep in my petty, pissed off, wrinkled little heart, I want to RELISH the giant ***TWOP*** of this guy's head popping out of his ass when he realizes that doing that to something that's important to somebody isn't fucking cute.
*sigh* Isn't it funny how little stuff we're not ready for can really get us down.