  It's not my fault there was no post yesterday, some sort of weird technical difficulty. Anyways, The Chad informed me that the interview later today (assistant helper thingee for youth-at-risk) might be starring his fricken psycho ex-girlfriend. Agh. She dated him the first year Chad and I were hanging, and I disliked her even before I found out she was a co-dependant freakshow. We tried to be friends, sort of, but that didn't work because she was obsessing that I was trying to steal Chad away, and my major issue was that she was doing things like reading his emails. Yick. They broke up twice, and a month or so after the second time, she threw a TV at Chad's head.
And, she's a social worker. And I might get to see her today, or work with her in the future. I just hope she's not carrying any major home appliances. Hmm. I wonder if anyone characteriszes me as a psycho ex-girlfriend? I mean, you hear about that species of deranged feminity all the time, makes a person wonder if ALL of these girls are actual, bona fide headcases. I'm not entirely sure I'd be classified as one, since, for the most part, I was painfully indifferent to the people I dated.
Perhaps I'd qualify as "Ice Queen". Or, Hose Beast. Kurt went to the doctor yesterday, because his pinkeye turned into ear ringing, and he looked like a semi-animated corpse, the doctor informed him that he has monster inflamed things because of post-nasal drip. Are there any three words more revolting, and given to nasty mucus mental images? I'm not helping much; when we cuddle, I have this image of mucus dripping on me. Post Nasal Dripping on me. I made the mistake of telling him that, and now he revels in making horking noises where ever he goes. Incidentally, his doctor's father was a doctor I saw on a regular basis on campus. He was a man with extremely bushy eyebrows, and his treatment for everything from plantar's warts to inner ear infections was to have a really hot shower, and hork, until you can't hork any more.
Charming man. I had vicious nightmares last night, both graphic and disturbing. In one, I was in a knife fight with Boy Named Sue, and in the other I had a miscarriage. I'm not going into details, because, well, I'm thinking about them enough as it is. You know how you aren't supposed to feel pain in a dream?
I think as a consequence of those dreams, I'm in one of those pensive moods. My dreams own me, if they're bad, i can't shake them for days. At the same time, though, the goodish ones, the oddish ones and the dreams classifed as 'other' always makes for good story fodder. The bad ones typically inspire those "what does it mean" thoughts, and those thoughts quickly swell into "No, really, what does it mean? What does any of it mean? " thoughts that cause me to furrow my brow, dress all in black, pretend to be Albert Camus, and listen to excessive amounts of peculiar music. Although, to be fair, that was my entire 4th year of university, and I wasn't dreaming at all then. Granger asked the other day how people get through the world. Ask a hundred people, get a hundred or so different answers. I was thinking though, that it isn't a question of getting through things; i mean, it takes way more effort to get the world to stop. Life sort of drags you on through no matter if you're ready, if you feel like it, or if you're sick and tired.
And the world is full of fuckheads. But there are lovers in that mess of fuckheads, family, friends. Pets. People saying "Thank you" and meaning it. I guess my opinon is that at any given moment, there is a fuckhead somewhere. But, in the next moment, that fuckhead could be giving his kid a much-needed hug, or feeding the homeless, or doing something worthwhile. In the end, what makes your life a living hell, or hella living is hope, and love, and remembering that we're all fuckheads. 
