the story thus far...

i have about 15 or 20 minutes before i head off in the pre-dawn dark to traverse the mighty golf course, and i thought i might attempt to catch you, o beloved non-existant reader, my droogs and only friends, up.

5 am is incredibly early to be up. but my body is already beginning to get used to the new routine.

golf courses are confusing things, and i think i might never quite learn the shortcuts from one hole another, or where they sit in relation to each other.

there is a contraption called the roller, and really, it deserves its own post when i am awake.

i have worked there two days and have already seen two alligators. one of them close enough to snap a picture on my phone, which i almost immediately deleted through heat stroke and light-headedness (read: stupidity).

i have not worked on the magnum crappus (or much of anything else, really) since starting the job, as so far it saps all my surplus energy. (who the fuck am i kidding?!? i never have even sufficient energy, let alone surplus. but in all fairness, this job has boosted my overall energy, it is just that by the time i finally get home, i am wore out. give it a few days till i am used to it.)

i love love love being out in the air and the sun and breeze all day.

is it just me, or when you are tired at the end of a long day, the kids seem to be extra whiney?

oh, and i never managed to finish there will be blood. what is it about the academy and movies with little or no dialogue that take forever to get going and even once they do they meander like sluggish marshy stream and leave you constantly asking, what the hell? i fell asleep. i woke this morning, popped it out of the player, bagged and tagged it, and back off to the rental place.

cause i mean, come fucking on, motherfuckers!

it was kinda like out of africa with oil.

the word you're looking for is: anyways.

darth sardonic

a synopsis...

on a break from writing on/refining/cursing at the magnum crappus.

here's a rundown of what you have missed:

write. fret. write. curse. write. worry. try to ignore kids' noises. write. scrap about 5 pages cause they're shite (i know, i know, never stopped me before--but this isn't just a blog post this time). write. grumble. orlando, seaworld, jamming with friends, and too much alcohol (if stephen king has taught me one thing, it is "all work and no play makes jack an axe-murderer"). lose saturday as a result of being tired, sore, and hungover. write. smile. beach. "be quiet goddammit!" followed by 20 minutes staring at the screen trying to recapture the absolutely fucking brilliant paragraph i had in my head. finally say "fuck it!" and take chapter in a slightly different direction. write. chew nails. write. mail a few chapters to friends to look over. write. frown. look at calendar: "holy fucking shit! april is half over!" write. gitch. appointments for kids. write. "god this thing is a pain in the ass!" write. breathe. write. cry (rereading some of the chapters puts me right back there again, and i can't help myself). write. interview for golf course job (in about an hour--wooo hooooo!) daydream about what i am gonna do with the money when the magnum crappus spends a month or two on the new york times' best seller list (quit your fucking laughing, i said daydreaming!! jesus!)

and post.

darth sardonic

gainfully employed...

i have applied for a civilian dental assisting position at the base's dental clinic.

i hate, and i mean abhor, writing resumes (who doesn't, right?). i have eight years experience with the air force, assisting specialties that range all over the dental map. i am confident in my abilities without being cocky, and yet still quite trainable. so why the fuck can't i just show up and show you what i am capable of? or even sit down with a group of live people, and discuss what kind of experience i have. and we all know that i am not really one for talking myself up, which makes writing a resume even more difficult, because it is little more than that. i would much rather just show you what i can do and let you draw your own conclusions.

instead, i have to find my training records (that was fucking fun, luckily i had a fair idea where they were), and fax that with a resume over and include a copy of my current cpr card (?!!!!!?) and they would send over my application with the other six (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) who have already applied.

i felt the burning, aching desire to throw my arms into the air and give up. i would have to dig out my training records, write the resume from scratch, and i don't even have a current cpr card. and there are six applicants ahead of me. i am fucked, forget it.

thank christ for the other half of my inner monologue, the asshole:

"you want this job, right?"

"well, yeah, it is the perfect job for me."

"and you know you are more than qualified, right?"

"of course."

"then fucking get up off your lazy, whiney ass and get out there and make this fucking thing happen!! god, you are pathetic!!"

and i did something not like me, and that even surprised myself: i threw on a t-shirt and shoes and went into the garage and found my certificates. i sat back down at the computer, and banged out a resume. due to the time factor, i did it rapidly and efficiently, though maybe not as well as i might have if i had a few days. then i leapt in the car and sped to the medical clinic to see about cpr classes. that turned out to be a dead end (i only today found out about the classes, and won't even be able to attend one till saturday, but i am gung ho all the way!), but i faxed off what i had with a promise to get cracking on the cpr class asap.

because, as i told my asshole inner voice, "all i can do is my best with what i have been given and hope that it catches their eye. if it doesn't happen, then it wasn't meant to be (oh god, thy name is candide, hahaha)."

the other half of me grudgingly agreed, and even sorta patted me on the back when he thought i wasn't looking.

here's hoping that the effort worked, o my beloved non-existant readers.

darth sardonic