Don't Put that There--Musings on Sickness and Bad writing
So yeah. I'm sick. I've got this very queasy feeling in my stomach, and all I want to do is lay around and drink carbonated sugar water (as opposed to any other time when all I want to do is lay around and drink mai tais). I feel gross. Just gross. No better way to say it.
However, I shall persevere, because gosh darn it, I'm from the south, and that's just what we do. We have lived through wars, humidity and Burt Reynolds movies, so I'll assume I'll make it through this. Besides, I have to go to work tonight, so I best be getting better soon, and I mean soon. With the help of a chubby stick of blush I just bought and some lip gloss, I will be back in the cafe, looking as normal and totally unsick as possible. Oh well. Goal for the day: looking like I have life in my body. And what a goal it is.
Just so you know (oh, great many people who actually read this), I'm not always sick and I don't always bitch. In fact, I get sick very, very rarely. I think working in the service industry has introduced my frail body to a host of pathogens that have invaded and rendered me into a fading flower. I once wrote an essay about women in 19th century American lit (basically in works by James and Wharton) being "too pure for this world" and illness, death and all that good stuff, and I am beginning to feel as if I am one of these beauties. I am too pure for the Williamsburg bookstore circuit, as I have not yet sold my soul to the gods of capitalism and profit. I may soon fade into my bed, where I will wear a white dressing gown and will be waited on by a few loyal servants who will feed me soup and listen to all the witty things I have to say. It is sad that this seems preferable to present situation.
Speaking of capitalism, profit and evilness, the bookstore where I work has recently made a rule that if we don't push the discount card and sell so many in a week, we will be written up and ultimately, fired. So I am looking for another job, as termination for me, is fairly inevitable. I can't sell the damn things, not even if I want to. Take last night for instance. I sold one, and I was happy because it was such a rarity. Maybe it is because I am, as a rule, against stuffing pre-written speeches down people's throats when all they want to do is buy a flipping coffee and get the hell out. But I guess I will have to be for it, at least for the time that I have left. Oh well. So much for that. I will miss my lovely co-workers, but you know, it's life, and I'm sure lots of low-wage outlets will be willing to hire me for something. Or I could always start up that phone sex hotline that I've been dreaming of.
And now, one final word on writing. After having read a peer's writing that was (flippantly and rather stupidly) posted to a website, I must say that I feel better about prospective writing career. While I am not turning anything out at present, and should really not be proud of anything, I must say, my stuff is a tad better than ummm, we shall call her the Desert Queen. DQ (something different--he he) seems to think that good writing and preadolescent sexual fantasy are one in the same. And this person has a college degree. Disturbing? I think so. Listen people. If you want to write about sex, write about sex. Chances are, I'll read it. But don't waste my time if you don't know what you're talking about. If you can't tie in emotional bonds and throw something in that I haven't heard before, or if the words "Here's my homework" are involved, you're just going to piss me off. I have read about sex, gosh darn it, I have even had sex, so I don't want to know the in's and out's of the act (yes, the pun was intended). Give me more, and if you can't, go get a business degree and work for John Q. Corporation because you're wasting everyone's time. Mean? Yes. True? Oh hell yeah.
So on that note, I retire. Yes, I understand that I'm a bad person and that there are all sorts of comments that could be flung my way. Don't waste my time. I waste enough of it on my own (In the Heat of the Night, anyone?).
However, I shall persevere, because gosh darn it, I'm from the south, and that's just what we do. We have lived through wars, humidity and Burt Reynolds movies, so I'll assume I'll make it through this. Besides, I have to go to work tonight, so I best be getting better soon, and I mean soon. With the help of a chubby stick of blush I just bought and some lip gloss, I will be back in the cafe, looking as normal and totally unsick as possible. Oh well. Goal for the day: looking like I have life in my body. And what a goal it is.
Just so you know (oh, great many people who actually read this), I'm not always sick and I don't always bitch. In fact, I get sick very, very rarely. I think working in the service industry has introduced my frail body to a host of pathogens that have invaded and rendered me into a fading flower. I once wrote an essay about women in 19th century American lit (basically in works by James and Wharton) being "too pure for this world" and illness, death and all that good stuff, and I am beginning to feel as if I am one of these beauties. I am too pure for the Williamsburg bookstore circuit, as I have not yet sold my soul to the gods of capitalism and profit. I may soon fade into my bed, where I will wear a white dressing gown and will be waited on by a few loyal servants who will feed me soup and listen to all the witty things I have to say. It is sad that this seems preferable to present situation.
Speaking of capitalism, profit and evilness, the bookstore where I work has recently made a rule that if we don't push the discount card and sell so many in a week, we will be written up and ultimately, fired. So I am looking for another job, as termination for me, is fairly inevitable. I can't sell the damn things, not even if I want to. Take last night for instance. I sold one, and I was happy because it was such a rarity. Maybe it is because I am, as a rule, against stuffing pre-written speeches down people's throats when all they want to do is buy a flipping coffee and get the hell out. But I guess I will have to be for it, at least for the time that I have left. Oh well. So much for that. I will miss my lovely co-workers, but you know, it's life, and I'm sure lots of low-wage outlets will be willing to hire me for something. Or I could always start up that phone sex hotline that I've been dreaming of.
And now, one final word on writing. After having read a peer's writing that was (flippantly and rather stupidly) posted to a website, I must say that I feel better about prospective writing career. While I am not turning anything out at present, and should really not be proud of anything, I must say, my stuff is a tad better than ummm, we shall call her the Desert Queen. DQ (something different--he he) seems to think that good writing and preadolescent sexual fantasy are one in the same. And this person has a college degree. Disturbing? I think so. Listen people. If you want to write about sex, write about sex. Chances are, I'll read it. But don't waste my time if you don't know what you're talking about. If you can't tie in emotional bonds and throw something in that I haven't heard before, or if the words "Here's my homework" are involved, you're just going to piss me off. I have read about sex, gosh darn it, I have even had sex, so I don't want to know the in's and out's of the act (yes, the pun was intended). Give me more, and if you can't, go get a business degree and work for John Q. Corporation because you're wasting everyone's time. Mean? Yes. True? Oh hell yeah.
So on that note, I retire. Yes, I understand that I'm a bad person and that there are all sorts of comments that could be flung my way. Don't waste my time. I waste enough of it on my own (In the Heat of the Night, anyone?).
posted by Southern Belle at 11:31 AM
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