I was going to maybe type some of them out, but well.. no time for that now this morning (I mean, sure... I have time... but I'm being melodramatic here)I got up at 8:30, but the entire... ENTIRE morning has been spent with my sister FOLLOWING ME AROUND babbling at me.
When I get up in the morning, chances are I'm not talkative. That's something that most people figure out intuitively and she's known me my whole life. She is well aware of my mood when I've just been woken up. I'm not out and out cranky, but I *do* prefer there to be as little talking at me, to me, or expecting responses from me as possible. If there does happen to be conversation, it will be brief and I will go back to sipping my coffee and reading.
So I've been treated to an hour and a half of non-stop talk about one of the crazy women she works with (she's obsessed with the health of her albino hedgehog and thinks of the squirrels that she buys bags of imported nuts for as her pets, insisting that if she moves, she'll take them with her... she's a kook), a diatribe I've heard at least 12 or 13 times now.
The lady just gets crazier, the stories get longer, and my sister's outrage and incredulity never wane.
It's sort of like talking about our father, except she doesn't get quite as self righteously angry. My sister has an infinite capacity for outrage and continues to be enraged in a very immediate way by things that happened when she was 16. I find that sort of anger pointless.
So today I'm a cashier. Not a long shift, not a lot to worry about. I don't like being a cashier becuase it's boring. Not because it's difficult or trying. Just because it's boring. I'm chained to one spot, which I dislike, and I'm limited to a very tiny range of interaction and comportment.
On the floor, I can get away with wearing those lil halloween headbands and singing to myself and giggling for no reason... not so when you're staring at a customer who's obsessed with things just ringing up correctly or scrutinizing your actions just WAITING for you to fuck something up. Really, I'm exagerating.
It's probably not good that I judge the quality of my day based on how many crazy people I encounter and how many good conversations I have. Thursday night I was approached by a very drunk guy who asked if I'd seen "A drunk white girl in here" ... that was his only description. Uhm... nope. Sorry. No drunk white girls. He let out a frustrated string of "fuckingfuckshitdickheadcocksuckerfucksh