Textual Exhibitionism

LAST FIVE ENTRIES
The Sunday Suicide Ritual - 03.19.06
somnambulism: n, Jeremy on a Sunday night - 03.13.06
careful what you wish, you may regret it... - 03.05.06
somebody gona geta hurt real bad - 02.20.06
=NOT(rain V sleet V dark of night) - 01.31.06

Validation - (05.31.05)

Today at work I was discussing the ambiguous results of my Damned by God Project with one of my superiors, when the subject of my performance came up. I'm not talking sexual performance; I think we're all pretty clear about that one. Don't...don't answer. Hey! NO. I'm talking about my performance and Vizzle Scizzle to date. It's been 10 months now since I started there, which means I'm a mere four fortnights from a review that I'm assuming takes place after a year. Naturally, when the subject of how badly I've been fucking up arises, I tend to shit the bed a bit, so to speak. So imagine my surprise when she starts to try to stem the panic-induced scatological nightmare by blowing smoke the other way. She's saying I'm doing this well, that I'm adopting the suggestions that they give, and that my proposals and reports are well-written (thank you, Diaryland). Meanwhile, I'm sitting there trying to suppress the shit-eating grin that threatens to break my face into a bunch of shit-eating pieces, because if someone is complimenting you on something, looking like you've spent the better part of the morning chewing on your own foot isn't likely the kind of thing that will come across as "acknowledgement and appreciation."

So I did the best I could to graciously accept her words of praise -- those of you who know me know how difficult that would have been -- while trying to remain humble and open to further suggestions. But I must say, I feel a ton of relief now. For the past several months I've felt like I was walking blindfolded along the jagged of a craggy precipice, uncertain about how my performance has been viewed. Part of that is the normal paranoia, but part of it is thanks to just how many things seem to have gone wrong. It might be my imagination, but I feel like I've been batting less than 0.500, which would be fine-and-god-damn-dandy if I was playing baseball, but fucking up more than half the time at anything else isn't going to earn you much respect. About the only thing it's going to get you is a swift kick in the ass on the way out the door. I personally don't have a kicked-ass fetish, so I'll take the praise, thank you very much.

So, I packed a girl tonight.

No, it's not what you're thinking, but I appreciate the hope you're holding out for me nonetheless. "Packed" is a volleyball term meaning hit in the head, especially the face, by a spike. For instance, you could use it in a sentence like this: "So, I packed a girl tonight."

Luckily, she was facing down or something, since I only smoked her on the top of her noggin, which still must have hurt because a) I hit it pretty damn hard and b) she had sunglasses on top of her head. Naturally, I felt like a right royal ass for doing it, even though I had no idea she was there and have almost zero control over where my spikes go. Half the time I can't even hit them when I'm playing beach, which I proved later in the night while almost tearing my shoulder apart. I apologised profusely like anyone with even a shred of a soul would, and most of the people on her team, herself included were ok with it. It was an accident, and these things happen during the course of a game. But one guy looked super choked. Someone suggested that maybe he was her boyfriend or something, in which case, kudos to him for not beating the everloving snot out of me and then wrapping me up in the net like a Frosh Week frat prank. I can hurt myself just fine without ouside interference, mkay?

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