From the work files: You know, I wonder if reading a book - actively reading, with one's face practically pressed into the book's spine, when one's fingers are being gnawed and pages are turned in rapturous attention - is an open invitation to be interrupted? Has an open book become a symbol, a sign, a green light for initiating conversation?
I mean, really. What is it about me reading a book or a magazine or being hunched over my journal writing that implores people - propels them - to go, "You know, that girl looks like she needs someone to talk to her right this very minute. No, no nevermind those other people who are twirling in their chairs staring at the ceiling, or the person who chirps a hello to each and every passerby. No, those people don't need talking to. They're just sitting there waiting for someone to talk to. And who wants to talk to someone who's waiting to be spoken to? No, I'm gonna strike up a conversation with this girl that's reading that book ..."
It's not like reading a book is an uncommon thing. People read books, so it's not like seeing someone in the act of doing so should send a signal that says, "Oh whenever you see someone reading a book, aw, it's just a cover. They may look like they're reading, but what that really means is that they're dying for attention." Is there something somewhere, some whacked out kinda code that says solitary people read books or something? And shouldn't solitary (or solitary-lookin') people be just as they are? Is it a crime? Maybe I'll put up a cardboard sign that says "Will read for food," and this will inspire people to ignore me with great disdain.
You may be wondering why I've dedicated three paragraphs to this already. I am, too. Initially I was writing this in my journal after being interrupted, but as I was transcribing just now it just got to me and so I had to say my piece. It's just annoying and I'd really like for it to stop, but woe, how to make it so ...
Anyway, in other parts of my rambling brain ...
Crush by DMB may be one of the finest night driving songs ever.
If there's one thing I've been thinking over and over again it's that there has to be a better way. For a lot of things.
Paulie on The Sopranos makes my week everytime he exclaims, "Oh!" ... as does Christopher with the "Get the f*&^ outta here!"
Do you think I'd make a good lawyer? Is being well-spoken a general prerequisite for law? I have stopped counting the number of times I've been told that I should be a lawyer. It makes me wonder if this is one of those cases where others may see something in you that other people don't. Earlier this week I was conversing with a few of my co-workers and one of the supervisors says, "You. I've never heard you talk before. You have a really fine voice. Strong. You sound like a lawyer. You're not from here though, are you?"
Kim sent an email this week saying she thinks I need to go back to school; she thinks I'm a prosecutor. While I agree about school, I don't know much about me prosecutin' folk.
Could my face please, please gimme a few more breakouts? Just a few more would be great. Perfect. Thanks.
Some of the people where I work are scary looking. I mean like medievally scary lookin'. My teeth aren't perfect but I do declare they aren't turning in on each other and browning. I'm taking these sights as a sign that maybe our dental plan isn't really a plan.
I miss New York.
Speaking of New York, it's been a good while since I got plum drunk. I don't drink as much these days, since drinking alone makes me think that I should at least be smoking, too. I mean if you're drinking, normally you're talking, and there's nothing worse or scarier to me than being drunk talking to myself. The thought of it makes me laugh at myself and a drunk person talking to themselves and laughing ... whoa lord.
How much do I love me some Gipsy Kings? Make me want to go stompin' in Seville with some castanets ... sweet.
Does anyone have a copy of the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack? Hol' up. Wait a minute. I'll check it out at the library.
Seriously though, the Kings make me feel like dancing. Taylor, I see us speeding on scooters or in some inconceivably small car to some Spanish gee-tar music. Maybe Elise can play us one in a couple of weeks.
Speaking of song, I've become that person at red lights who's singling loud and proud. I'm every woman, baby.