Dear so and so,

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

How’s it going? Good week?

Work’s been intense this week. On the side, though, I’ve made tons of progress with my crocheted jewelry! I’m so excited. I’m working on getting my resale license…that’s an important next step.

What are you up to this weekend? I have some friends in town…looking to do some Berkeley bar hopping on Saturday. I’d love it if you would join me if you’re available.

Maybe I should have told you this earlier, but I wanted to let you know that I am seeing someone else…er…two someone elses.

Hope you’re well! Talk to you soon!
–Susie J.

Susiejster’s Life Resume

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Susie J.
susiej@gmail.com

Objective: Remain broke, free of commitment, and unemployed.

Education:
University of California at Berkeley
Double B.A. in Cognitive Science and Philosophy.

Skills:
· Overreacting; causing scenes; melodrama.
· Double booking; forgetting to return phone calls, emails, letters.
· Saying precisely what shouldn’t be said
· General merriment
· Wasting time on computers

Relevant Experience:

Pleasant Individual
6/16/2005, for example.
Pulling up to a stop light, I made eye contact with a baby in the car next to me. Instantly friends, we made faces and danced at each other for the length of the light. When it was time for me to pull away, she blew me a kiss!

Temporary Employee
7/3/2004 – present
I worked off and on at this one place for the last five years. They recently opted not to employ me on a permanent basis.

Drunk
8/3/1997 – present
I started drinking at sixteen and never looked back. Once I commit, I’m in for the long haul.

Serial Dater
8/3/1997 – present
I can handle dating multiple people at once. A useful consequence is that I’m fairly good at handling rejection.

– References available upon request –

A date from three perspectives

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Perspective #1: Susie J. updates her father’s office

From: Susie J
Reply-To: Susie J
To: susiejster@gmail.com
Date: Apr 27, 2005 10:11 AM
Subject: Jen’s Big Life Adventure: Date #2 with the Millionaire* (Date #1)

Summary

Score: 6.1
Food: Excellent (Scott’s at Jack London Square)
Chemistry Test Results: there’s potential…

Details

On the way to dinner, he mentions his internet dating failures (-5 P.p.). The implication, however, was that he likes me. A couple minutes later he admits that he realized the severity of our age gap. I wonder when it occured to him. As a good friend of mine put it: “I was just punching some dates through the calendar, and I realized that I’m a lot older than you!” (-5 P.p.)

I had a glass of a northern coastal California cab and the mahi mahi with hush puppies and garlic butter. He had the fresh crab and made a funny joke about how he was going to get messy (+3 P.p.). The conversation had some definite second date lulls, but we pulled through. I really only had to fear for the fate of the date for a matter of seconds at a time. We finished with the creme brulee, really quite a good rendition.

As it was the second date, it was necessary to delve a little deeper into each other’s lives. Among what we discussed: Swedish reality television, his apartment and the nearby organic grocery store, his mother’s visit, his bunions (just kidding!), other products I could sell at home fairs, my boring job, et cetera. We hardly touched on any depressing subjects, save the past two elections. He expressed that after the 2004 election, he was depressed for two weeks and he’s still ashamed to return to the homeland (+15 P.p.).

The highlight of the date definitely came when he tried to figure out what I do in my free time. After briefly mentioning my knitted goods plan, I realized it was the perfect time to bounce one of my entrepreneurial schemes off his business-oriented (sponge) head. (I mean, really, what is a millionaire good for besides investment possibilities?) I quickly (and intelligently) decide to persent the most solid of my buisness models: the bar/laundromat. And–this is where the Patrick points really start rolling in–his brother has always wanted to start a bar/laundromat! (+6,304 P.p. – or should they go to his brother?) I wondered briefly if I was out with the wrong brother (-45 susie j. points).

After dinner, we took a walk along the pier and then he brought me home. He mentions that it’s chilly and I offer him my coat (+14 susie j. points for chivalry). He declines (+3 P.p.), but strangely mentions that he thinks we have an audience. He was referring to the window flanked restaurant nearby, but unbeknownst to either of us, we definitively were not alone. It seems two of my great friends had concluded that the best use of their Tuesday evening was stalking my date. I don’t disagree; their reports follow.

Conclusion

Investment Potential: high
Romantic Potential: see investment potential
Compatibility Assessment: eh…see investment potential.
*This claim is as of yet unsubstantiated.

Please direct any comments, queries, and concerns to susiejster@gmail.com.
If you would like to subscribe to the Jen’s Big Life Adventure newsletter, please send an email with the subject “subscribe.” If you would decisively like to be left off the list for any future mailings, please respond with the word “unsubscribe.”

Perspective #2: Stalker #1

Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say. Dusk had turned to darkness and Gayle and I were feeling hungry and mean. We were driving in circle after circle, and the restaurant eluded us time and time again. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning in a cheesy metaphor, an idea struck me, an idea awesome in its brilliance and immaturity.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we went to the restaurant where Jen and her Swede are eating?”

“Oh my God, that would be so freaking hilarious.”

Our restaurant finally appeared. We ate, and the food displaced our hunger, but not our predatory impulses. Nay, it fueled them, and what had at first been an amusing suggestion became a goal, a challenge, a grande cause. It was to go like this: we would arrive at Jack London square and peruse the restaurants. Being quality people, Jen and the Swede would be seated prominently, next to a window. We would enter and pretend to notice them, and Gayle would express surprise that we happened to be at the same restaurant: “Oh my God, I can’t believe it! Will and I come here all the freaking time!” I would excitedly tell Jen that Zach and I had made progress on our list of the fifteen best states: “Jen! Number five is going to be… Alaska!!!” Then I would take notice of the Fjord-jumper and exclaim, pointing at him, “you’re right, Jen! His head really does look like a sponge!”

I will spare you the details of our drive from Albany to O-town, fascinating though they are. We found an unbelievably choice parking spot – picture this if you can: the very last parking space on Broadway! The one right next to the corner, right across from Jack London Square! An auspicious start, to be sure!

Then began a rather lengthy survey of the various boojie restaurants; through the window we scanned the scattering of booj-bags in a bistro and a seafood restaurant, with no luck. The night air was pleasant and the grimy waters of the bay provided an undeniably romantic ambiance.

“What if we find them making out out here?”

“That would be freaking awful.”

We continued the search for our prey undaunted, entering a Steakhouse. I played the hostess like a fiddle: “Hi. I’m planning a graduation party for next month; would it be okay if we just looked around?” But alas, this ruse was for naught, for there was nary a Jennifer nor a Scandinavian in sight.

“Okay, I’m getting Jen vibes from this direction!” said Gayle, and we investigated the restaurant’s bar. Another disappointment for our hapless heroes.

It was now becoming rather late, and as we walked along the pier I worried aloud that the date might have finished already.

“No way… I’m sure they started at eight. And it’s, what, ten o’clock now? Two hours for dinner is about right.”

“I don’t know. Swedes are very efficient.”

Gayle stopped short, suddenly staring at the walkway beside the restaurant that we were approaching.

“Hey! I see two people!” she whispered. “And the girl’s got curly hair. She’s got curly hair!!!” We had to duck behind a boat, and Gayle peered eagerly across the pier. I could see nothing. I have bad eyesight, and refuse to wear glasses. Glasses are for nerds. The couple reappeared, and it was as if Gayle suddenly exploded:

“Oh my God! It’s them!! It’s totally them!” I was overtaken by a sudden panic: what the fudge were we thinking being there? How pathetic were we going to look? Jen would see us, and her face would register momentary confusion, and then a toxic melange of disgust and contempt. “What are you guys, ten years old?? I can’t buh-leeeeve this!!” And she would treat us to an ostentatious roll of the eyes. Being naturally cowardly (I’m Irish/Scottish), I bolted, taking refuge beside a nearby fountain. Gayle (also of Celtic descent) frantically followed. I made her light a cig, so as to look natural, and we sat dreading our imminent discovery.

And yet, as the star struck couple passed, cheeks pink from cold, they were too absorbed in each other to take notice of us! They strolled slowly past the fo
untain, sparing nary a sideways glance. At this point Gayle and I went from saboteurs to spies. We were spying. We were creepy. But we couldn’t interrupt the romantic promenade; that would be bad form. Jen and Spongehead – there really is an uncanny resemblance – sauntered dreamily along towards Broadway, eventually walking right past my car. They soon began to recede into the darkness of the underlit street. Gayle and I trailed them about fifty or sixty cubits behind, praying to soon be done with this sad episode of our lives. But as we finally reached my car, Jen and the Swede crossed the street and BEGAN WALKING BACK TOWARDS US!

“Should we wave to them?”
“Okay. Yeah, we’ll drive by and wave. That will make us less creepy. And we won’t actually have to talk to them.”
“Oh, but there’s no U-turn.”
“This is Oakland, the land law forgot.”
“Should we open the windows?”
“No, no, let’s just wave.”

And we gave the biggest, smelliest wave that we could muster, excited staccato heartbeats resounding in our anxious bosoms as we barreled toward our victims. We were sure that our attack met its target, because as we waved Jen turned her face askance, and there it was, that look of disgust and contempt, aimed at none other than us! It seems, however, that Gayle and I can’t even manage to make asses of ourselves properly: Jen swears that our wave went unseen, that her withering glance had some other object, or was a hallucination, that if we had not told her our tale she would never have suspected a thing. Next time we’ll do a better job, Jen. We’ll make our presence known AND give you ample cause to regret it.

Perspective #3: Stalker #2 weighs in
The only information we had to go on was Jack London Square . No time, no specific restaurant, no assurance of success. But, no doubt because of complicated and fateful astrological configurations and a special psychic connection between Jennifer and myself, the seemingly needle-in-a-haystack chance of successfully stalking her on her date was in actuality more of a stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb given.

Thinking back, it is almost as if the millionaire wanted us to stalk him on his date with Jennifer: why else choose an area where the restaurants have so many windows? Of a particularly paranoid disposition myself, I question this decision. After walking around the third restaurant and peering in the large bay windows, I must admit that hope was fading fast. Will, as a Taurus, has an arguably natural inclination toward defeatism, so I felt that I had to rally his spirits: “It’s only over the next hill, bucko!”

And then: in the distance, a girl with dark, short curly hair. A pair of people, walking out along one of the piers. I was almost immediately sure that it would turn out to be Jennifer and the millionaire. My heart leapt at this success, and I turned to inform Will of my suspicions. But then it hit me: they were holding hands. And walking along a pier. Slowly. For a moment, this evidence of romance made me doubt that it was Jennifer (after all, I’m very skeptical of this whole millionaire thing). But a certain slant of light hit her, and I could see that she was wearing her red coat. And a familiar “business cas” gray skirt. And that was certainly her walk, though it was slowed down to a sexy not-a-care-in-the-world sashay.

As I slowly processed this all, I realized that they were walking back from the bay and would soon round the corner and see us!!

Now, to be fair, I can not speak for Will. But having read his description of our escapade, I would argue that it was neither our Celtic heritage nor our astrological inclinations that made us bolt at the prospect of running into them. At some level, we both knew that this was not how we had imagined our happily impulsive encounter: it should have been (and would have been, had we found the damn burrito place earlier) them seated, us standing. Not an intrusion on an intimate moment. That is just poor form, and Will and I both shudder at the thought of poor form. So I think that our bolting came from the best within us: despite my skepticism as to this strapping Swede’s intentions toward Jennifer, despite Will’s hatred of people with money, despite Will’s disapproval of taking a date to Jack London Square, and despite my dislike of many born under the sign of the twins—despite all these things, this type of moment between two people is to be respected.

Quickly noticing how absorbed Jennifer and the millionaire were with each other, we became less and less afraid of being noticed. He is only slightly taller than her, dressed in all black, short sleeves, nice slacks. His walk had a certain confidence to it as well: certainly the pretty girl on his arm didn’t hurt matters. I really didn’t see his face this whole time, for I was much more interested in watching Jennifer. She was smoking and smiling, casually holding his hand and ambling ever so slowly this star-speckled night, as though she was made for dating, made for romance, moonlight, candlelight, the like. A scene worthy of the cinema, to be sure. An aura of charm radiated from her—how could this millionaire not be in love with her? Happy to behold this web of magic she so effortlessly had woven, I became even more reluctant to disturb it. And the millionaire became a person, no longer an abstract, vaguely pathetic shade, and I had no desire to ruin this happy stroll for him. After all, he was just enjoying a beautiful moment in a cold, hard world.

You know: I don’t know if I actually felt any of this. Will’s description is much more accurate. I get carried away sometimes. After all, I am a Leo. Of Celtic heritage, no less.

can you darling…can you picture this?

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

The sun’s shining, but you curse its very life-warming essence, that’s how far down in the H.O. you are today. But the air smells crisp, and if it wasn’t for your inevitable arrival at your place of employment, life wouldn’t be so bad after all. You approach your BART station, stick your ticket through, and ascend/descend to the requisite platform. A seasoned traveler, you don’t have to wait long, no, not long at all, for your train to arrive.

And sure, your earphones are coddling your hangover. It’s not soo bad. It doesn’t matter where on the train you choose. Wherever you’re going, your day is about to be perfect.

This is why: Over the bitter strains of Belle and Sebastian, or maybe you’ve given in and bought a Brighteyes album… whatever your poison, fate interrupts, and you hear my voice – yes! my voice!! – announcing the approaching BART station. Your body fills with glee. Just imagine. “Dublin/Pleasanton.” Maybe I would pronounce the forward slash “Dublin-forward-slash-Pleasanton.” Maybe you’re not going to DP. You’re going to 12 street. “Twelth Street” – can you hear it?!! And then, how eloquently I would deliver the transfer instructions! Oh. That’s the sound of sweetness, that’s what that would be. Your toes would curl in anticipation. You wouldn’t be able to wait to detrain. And when you did, there’d be my smiling face peeking out of the top of the train. Waving; ensuring all my passengers safely made it off the train, over that little gap and up the stairs.

Yes, yes, this would be perfection. This is my calling. I am ready. Sometimes I might misspeak and say “MacBart” rather than “MacArthur.” I’ll develop a following. Folks will laugh – actually laugh – on my BART train. We’ll have dance parties when we go under the bay. I’ll turn on my mini radio, and abuse the microphone. I’ll open the doors at strange places late at night. We’ll let on the loonies, and never complain.

And let’s say you and I have plans for the evening, but we have yet to finalize them. While commuting, all you need do is press that little button (maybe three times) and you will actually talk to me way up at the front of the train in the control pit! We’ll have a quick chat, and arrange to meet at 16th and Guerrero at 5:15. I’ve been working since three a.m. – it will be time for drink. And then you’re not going to wonder all day when we’re going to meet up as you otherwise might have.

I say, life is grand. We’re not even going to need cell phones anymore. Now, aren’t you glad to see me?

Tonight, a forecast:

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

This is how the date with the millionaire is going to go:

He’s going to have his limo driver pick me up at my parents’ house. He won’t know which house is mine (even though they are numbered) and he’ll have to call. Then he’ll come to the door and meet my mom. My mom will smile widely and accept him into our family. He’ll get a little flustered, but he brought me a corsage. A corsage!! Suddenly I like him a little more.

We’ll get into the limo–at which point we’ll have our first conversation ever (in person, anyway)–and drive to the movie theatre. We’ll have a glass of champagne in the limo to celebrate our going out after postponing the date twice. We’ll pick a movie, but the one we decide on won’t start for forty-five minutes. So I’ll spend forty-five minutes wishing I was on a date with someone who smoked. But at least he enjoys a good bottle of champagne!! We’ll leave the limo and walk around Hacienda Crossings, chatting about life and philosophy, and drinking champagne out of paper cups. Or maybe we’ll sit in the theatre and discuss politics and the human genome, and drink it from a flask. Either way, it is good champagne.

Finally the movie will start. He will, or he won’t, try to hold my hand (this prediction is guaranteed 100% accurate).

Then we’ll have dinner. I’ll order a couple glasses of wine. We’ll probably go to the only restaurant I’ve ever worked at. That won’t be ackward at all. At least they bring a jug of wine to the table and don’t keep track. And then I’ll try to pay for myself. But only as a gesture. He’ll see through me, and realize that I don’t actually want to pay for myself. I’ll tell him about my goal to have a million dollars by August. He’ll suggest that he funds one of my crazy entrepreneual schemes. Yes, the date is going well.

He’ll take me home as I’m tired and drunk. But not before we buy plane tickets to Sweden for May Day, and make arrangements for the bar/laundromat to open in June. I say! I’m sooooo lucky. Oakland is too, cause it is severely lacking a bar/laundromat.

Three days at a home fair in Santa Rosa

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Friday:

1:15 p.m. Show up fifteen minutes late, hung over as a mother fuck. I can’t think, let alone communicate. Apparently, we’re selling sponges (I think I knew that?). But not the kind that keeps you from getting knocked up. Nor the kind that we typically use to clean around the house. (Those are filled with gaping holes – a haven for dirt, germs and bacteria.) Not to mention, they’re not absorbant at all, but we’ll get to that.

We’re not just selling sponges. We’re selling sponges. With a microphone, glaring lights, a rehearsed charming demo… The booth is complete with water heaters and Sponge Bob action figures (we are selling yellow sponges).

I can’t think at all. Spent the day bagging two big ones (one for the bathroom, and another for general cleaning – they retail on QVC for $19.95 a sponge, but here at the home show, they’re buy one get one), one small one (the perfect size for tubs, sinks, teflon, pots, pans and dishes) and a paper describing what to do when they get rock hard (why bacteria cannot survive and they don’t get the nasty odor those cellulite sponges get) and where to buy more (but you won’t need another one – they’re guaranteed for a year, but they’ll last for up to twenty or longer).

The demo ends with a dramatic demonstration of how the sponge removes Diet Pepsi from a square of light-colored carpet, Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem is not just any carpet, either. He has a sponge backing which absorbs the Diet Pepsi so it doesn’t form an unattractive puddle on the demo counter. He gets a bath every night, and when he’s not working a home show, he’s accompanied by framed pictures of beloved daughter and grandchildren.

I try to learn the spiel. Three damn minutes. I can’t take it. Pot food won’t help, I decide (thankfully – I can’t risk any more panic attacks at temp jobs).

I refuse to put on the microphone… Still in the H.O. at eight p.m. when the damn thing finally closes.

Saturday:

10:15 a.m. Try the demo, wind up spilling Diet Pepsi on the woman I’d suckered into watching my botch of a demonstration. It really is a convincing demo – especially when my mentor presents it. No one wouldn’t buy these sponges. They’re bacteria, mold and mildew resistent. They work like a vaccuum (that’s why we call it “the sponge that sucks”). It easily cleans any and all surfaces without scratching or leaving any streaks. Use it on cars, boats, RV’s, kitchen counters and kitchen appliances. It even works as a squeegee on your shower doors and glass.

It turns out my mentor has never once spilled Diet Pepsi on a customer in her five years in the business. The customer receives one free sponge, though she hadn’t witnessed the magic absorbant capabilities so vividly demonstrated by Carpe’s dance with Diet Pepsi, and thus she’ll probably never appreciate it. She was pissed, and rightfully so. She left with a brown stain on the crotch of her white pants. Well-rested me decided that it would be socially ackward to demonstrate the amazing absorbant capabilities of the sponge that sucks in this situation. I decide not to cry.

Hours pass. I sell my first sponges. I wear the microphone. I (mostly) remember the spiel, though I’m always forgetting to point out that they’re machine washable (or throw them in the dishwaster – I even bleach mine!). I even say, “So, if you get a spill, what do you do? Get excited, run and grab some paper towels. You might do a little dance on the paper towels, but a whole roll won’t get up the stain or the smell”, and make the joke about pouring the Diet Pepsi back into a glass – either “give it to the person who spilled – you’ll save money on drinks that way” or “give it to the kids – they’ll never know.” America laughs at that. And they love it when I say the word “pee”, even when it is imbedded in a list of liquids the sponge sucks up (not that that list is finite if the list of liquids is not).

8:15 p.m.: I leave the home fair and drive back to Oaktown, to return by noon the next day (which I accomplished, by the way…well, noon oh five). I try the towel (if you buy a bag right now, we’ll throw in a free towel – works like a chamois on your car or trucks, try it as a travel towel – Speedo makes one that Olympic swimmers use to towel off with after events). Not really as absorbant as I’d imagined. And it’s kinda hard to wash off. I’m a little disillusioned. I decide it takes multiple uses to really appreciate their usefulness, and I plan to try it as a face cloth (companies like Aveda, the Body Shop, Dermalo…oh fuck, why can’t I ever say it right?…DermalogEEEca market small squares of it for washing your face – it removes dirt oil and reside without getting any bacteria).

No need for complete sentences when you’re selling something. All that matters is that someone buys what you’re selling.

I manage to acquire prescription speed at the party I attend, a perfect solution to the problem that was the consequence of attending the party in the first place: not sleeping enough.

Sunday:

Take the Adderol and a bong rip, have a lovely drive to Santa Rosa.

12:15 p.m.: My mentor says “you’re looking awfully chipper this morning!” I feel validated. I sell some mops while she demos.

I demo. I sell three sets of sponges from one demo – not bad considering “it takes time to handle crowds.” I realize that I’m really only approaching women with the sponges. The men don’t really nod when I ask them if they’ve noticed how your normal cellulose sponge gets those smelly smells while I wave a clean one in their face. Lukily it’s dripping water, something a PVA sponge never does. It holds the liquid in until you squeeze the end or twist it like a towel. (I later learned that I was not twisting the sponge correctly. I’m going to practice this and my intonations before our next home fair in Conord in April.)

You have to hypnotize the crowd.

And when you do, as my mentor did time and time again, they grab the bags of sponges off the counter. You can’t take the money fast enough, or demonstrate again soon enough to keep their attention. The crowd always moves. But the ones that stay will never have a smelly sponge again. Did I mention that they’re guaranteed for a year, but I’ve heard from customers that they will last for up to twenty? Sometimes I forget to mention that. They’re made of Poly Vinyl Alcohol. (Did I get that right? sometimes I get it wrong. I called “Poly Virtual Alcohol” to one dude, and he didn’t bat an eyelash. Haha. Virtual alcohol. I like it.) It’s a material invented by NASA. It collects dirt, hairs and grime but since it’s dense with only microscopic pores, all the dirt, hairs and grime collects on the outside to be easily washed off by a stream of hot water. It’s the most absorbant material around, and these sponges are the most durable and sanitary on the market.

I learn that there’s money in sales. And you really don’t need complete sentences, but, really, I rather like complete sentences. What I don’t like is the forty hour work week, 50 weeks a year – anything to avoid that.

The big boss comes to meet me, right when I’m selling a mop to a lady who was lucky enough to witness a demo by my mentor. I’ll take it. I’m wearing the microphone and everything.

A trio of three elderly buy a set of sponges from me. They’re going to split the set between them (the towel you receive as a complimentary gift is so big that you can cut the towel in half or quarters to make one dish cloth, one dust rag, and still have half to use for a personal towel – great for traveling! – or a facial rag). They ask me whether I had to memorize the demo, since it seemed so natural to hear me say it. I admit that yes, I had to learn it. They ask how long I’ve been working on it. I modestly pronounce that today was only my third, yes, that’s right, third day selling sponges. I take their congratulations. Fills my belly. Have
I eaten?

I take the congratulations of a long-haird gentlemen that was awfully impressed with my demonstration, but somehow not impressed enough to buy a set of sponges. Asshole. He suggests that they’re really a quite a hippie product, since they’re reusable and biodegradable. I recognize how correct he is, and wonder how he can see my leg hair through my jeans.

The day ends. We total with $5400 in sales (not the best for a homeshow, but not the worst – though, admittedly, in the lower five). I walk away with $300, one mop, six big sponges, one small sponge, and two towels. Not to mention the infinite benefits of the knowledge that the selling of cleaning sponges is a sexist business (men don’t need to see Carpe’s role in the demo – all they need to know is that the PVA sponges and towels won’t leave streaks on their vehicle), that the handle of the mop is telescopic not stereoscopic (it extends to up to five and a half feet – use it to clean high up windows, or RV’s – and compacts for easy storage), and that you really don’t need to know how to spell chamois, or realize that it ought to be italicized in print, to sell a sponge that comes with a free one.

6:15 p.m.: I can’t wait to try out my new PVA mop on our mold on the bathroom ceiling. I drive back to Oak town, lock my keys in my car.

11:41 p.m.: Retreived keys thank goodness for AAA, but have yet to try out my new PVA mop on forementioned mold. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.

daunted on a Thursday

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

i have what i’ve decided to call “the worst temp job ever”, though that is possibly untrue. Possibly, or probably, i will discover in my life a “worse temp job than the worst temp job ever” and I find that possibility only minimally satisfying.

the planet ruling my life right now is characterized by a constant desire for a more satisfying satisfaction. i used to have a shower head that advertised it was “even wetter feeling” and if water has degrees of wet feeling, and higher degrees cause a more satisfying shower – it really was a damn good shower head – how many degrees of satisfaction do I in fact need?

direction = satisfaction, perhaps a true statement. love = satisfaction, perhaps true as well. no definitive identity relations hold in these equations…at least from my point of view. without any, then, the I is an i, is a me, and I am daunted by dissatisfaction. so daunted i did not go to the auto repair shop to file files and move files and unmove filed files and then move the files i moved yesterday.

but i am not daunted. tonight…a night for satisfaction. my horoscope said so. in the fine print that no one else can read without the lense of one experienced in such things. a night for a new bar – an experience always satisfying. i like going into a bar that i have previously only experienced intermediate to maximally wasted. it always looks so different with fresh, undrunken eyes, as the Elbo Room looked to me last Tuesday. and it was that in an effort not to be daunted i utilized those four gin and tonics during happy hour and wound up at work in the h.o.. and that i have utilized nameless other drinks and bars on these days of existing thus unsatisfied. Southern bars filled with southern men wanting to take me home or for a ride in their helicopter…or not southern men, but still, the same damn itinerary.

Satisfying would be a fresh itinerary. today i got a fresh itinerary, and I shall and am utilizing it. tomorrow i will make a fresh itinerary. everyday is a fresh itinerary, but how can that not on its own be fairly daunting?especially with the decreasing chances of visiting novel bars. what i need to find are the correct conditions for satisfaction = everyday. or satisfaction = breathing, cause then, i couldn’t avoid being satisfied. or, perhaps…

satisfaction = blogging.