Classic Snivel

July 13, 1997

Well, fine. I'm busy and hip, and I had my naked self to enjoy, so I didn't mind sacrificing my electronic oral satisfaction for a half-hour longer, and time passed. Which is when I logged in again, and noticed something queer...

Yeah. Everything gone. When the system hung again, it failed to write a single character back into the file, blowing away an entire week of writing. Needless to say -- but I'll say it -- my displeasure was incurred. Everything, from my first day on the job, to Charlotte's wonderful birthday, was lost to the ages. I, being a goof, of course had no backup on my hard drive (something that has since been corrected), and frantically tried to undelete any of the individual sections composed offline so that I could at least restore some of my week. But of course, a day or two hardly made up for all of the typing I'd invested (some composed late on worknights, when I was so exhausted that I began to hallucinate. You know how when you're in bed, half asleep, you start to hear things in your own little head -- mostly memories; fragments of voices and conversations from your life, often reassembled in random and strange ways? That's what I'd be experiencing. It got that way at work, too. That's right.. I was typing a snivel when every lost minute of sleep brought me to my own horrible death.), and sourly I just sank into my chair.

I kept thinking and wondering... how on earth can I get a copy of my original Snivel back? When it hit me. I'd read the Snivel with my browser just the day before. I do it all the time, since my account deals with everything as text, and only through the graces of Chatslip do I get a real graphical connection. Thus I can see if everything I've set up looks the way I want it to when people read it.

Yes, that's right... it took me a second, but my mind drifted to thoughts of Netscape's disk cache. There it was -- m0psgioe.htm -- just waiting for me. Perfectly complete, perfectly updated, lacking only today's snivel.

Bang zoom.
Here you go. Enjoy the archive, fully restored.

J u l y 12

All who see the world as you do I feel sorry for. With such a narrow minded view on the world that envelopes you, I do not know how one could become so distraught over simple equations. Time destroys you every day. An item of happiness is non-existant, is it not? That is what you state in a foolish, satirical manner. But what power do emotions hold with in a human mind. You have allowed melacholy to destroy you. You weak pathetic socialized fool. But time still exists within a paradoxially infinite world.

I think one of my favourite things in the world is philosophy. At the same time, though, my most hated of hatreds would be for people who try to apply philosophy -- the metaphysics types mostly -- to matters of daily life. Which is to say, I hate philosophy students. The ones who aren't me, I mean.

I don't pretend to have all the answers. And why should I, when I have such endless fun stumbling into metaphorical walls? I must confess to a solid enjoyment -- nay, an addiction -- to being happy, but when I try to figure out what exactly would make> me happy, I do obviously have a harder time than merely itemizing that which already does. But I think a lot of people are this way, and if you were to get me to admit anything conspiratorially, I'd say I think I actually have it figured out pretty well; and in fact better than most folks.

But of course, I'm not always spunky and delighted with life on earth. I don't see how anybody could expect to be. I get depressed a lot; however I have to say that I expect this has a lot to do with my own disposition, and certainly with a little brain chemistry, considerably more than it has to do with simple criterion. That is, if I don't have X then consequently I'm going to be unhappy. But I can't agree with something so simplistic. "I'm being a bad Rob, therefore all I have to do is not be so bloody melancholy all the time, and life will be better." As anybody with my pathetic outlook knows, emotions don't get controlled, and furthermore can't be. All you can control might be might be your perception of things, and that in turn can affect what you end up feeling.
I guess, though, that the implication is that I necessarily must be some bed-ridden corpse, sealed in a room and locked away from the world; too busy with sulking over minutiae to see the big picture.

Which is silly. I mean, I have a great job, and a life -- friends who love me, a tolerance to levels of caffeine that would probably kill smaller mammals and children; and university antics and sexual escapades, both of legendary proportions (heh heh). I'm generally pretty content -- or at least, I realize enough that there are way more people who have things worse than I do, but ultimately I internalize absolutely everything, get self-conscious for the most trivial reasons, and find myself depressed because I'm not a rock star, or because the person I want most to be naked in my bed with me is somewhere else. And yeah, in the end I complain about the things that are left. I complain because one of my dearest friendships is basically falling apart, and has been for awhile now. Or I complain because one of my dogs died, and that makes me sad, or I whine about whatever on earth else is on my mind that day. I even whine about trivial, or happy things. "I love my shiny boots, but --" and so on. But I have an otherwise decent outlook. I put the blame on things where they belong, and I don't make excuses for things. I'm perfectly happy admitting when I do something stupid. If I walk into the wrong office at work, then I do an about-face and tell my boss, standing there, that I walked into the wrong office, and she'll laugh, because the layout's weird and even she's done it. But also, I just have the humility to deal with the fact that I do dumb things. I can also deal with my strengths, though. I have my devilish grin, magical fondness for performing oral sex, the ability to tie my shoes, and impeccable spelling. And this and that and this and that.

Like, I think there's a point being missed here. The Daily Snivel has nothing to do with how great my life is. I wouldn't want to read about that if I were surfing the web. Everybody's web page is designed to utterly impress people. Everybody wants you to think that they're this entirely cool person -- and more, an entirely cool person with great and amazing HTML powers. My web page is only further ego masturbation, by far, and sure -- I like that. I like being able to tell my cool stories about my rocking life, and have people say -- "Wow. Rob is a dandy fellow, and how I want to sleep with him!" but that's so one sided.

However I'm fond of the idea of allowing people to see that I can be pathetic, too. That not everything is perfect, and that there are times I end up mired in these doldrums are self-loathing. But that's what life is about. A lot of people, especially a lot of people with entirely too much intelligence for their own good, get eccentric and weird and obsessive and dwell on things. So be it, though -- I'm not about to pretend or pose. I'm putting my entire life on display, and people can think whatever they want about me. Occasionally even good things happen. But basically what I have is a diary, and unashamedly, it all goes in there. If I tried anything else, I'd just be another person trying to fellate his own gigantic monster horse penis.

People spend entirely too much time convincing other people that they're happier, or more successful, or better, than they really are. Or more to the point, better than YOU. And we all do it. We do it everytime we dress up to dance in a smokey club downtown, or dye our hair purple just because there's groceries to buy, checkout girls to impress, and it could stand it; or we don't pick our noses in the car. Or whatever. I think if anything that's more an example of socialization than my humble whining. I don't mind when people think I'm a goof, so long as it's for the right reasons and doesn't merely offend a philosophy. So isn't it really sadder and weaker when you're obsessed with impressing people, rather than obsessed with if Lilith is going to call me tomorrow, or if Charlotte doesn't like her tummy?

My friend Burrhus has pointed out that if he did a Snivel, well, he'd be Batman outside of a week. And I admit, I've been tempted. But not because I dislike being such a sad little boy, but just because there are times when honestly I have nothing to write about, and it'd be way easier to make up details, such as how I drive a jet-car and mess up the ass of evil all night long. Besides, the more whining I do, the better the chance that someone will just shove a handful of calming pills down my throat, and I can put my feet up, kick back on the bliss, and then whine because my sex drive has vanished thanks to all the fucking neurotransmitters.

J u l y 11

So, tell me, have you ever had one of those days? You know - the ones where you fall off the chair while crushing earwigs on the wall with you shoe because your friend calls to invite you to a wedding where you will feel supremely uncomfortable...Where your ex wants to attend this wedding with you, and so does your boyfriend, who doesn't know the couple as well, and it's your job to make a rejection? Where you gnosh down twice the daily recommended dosage of TUMS to take the edge off your heartburn and heartache, only to realize several hours later [as you traipse through an obnoxiously sunny day to meet your darling at work and escort him back past your part of town with the cake you so lovingly prepared turning into glue-mush in your tote bag] that, while full of dry, chalky goodness, a gut full of TUMS do not a meal make? You know - the day that ends with a traipse through a grocery store full of annoying suburbanites & nervous mall cops, a knee injury, and a complete rejection by The Ontario Student Assistance Program for a much needed and coveted student loan?

I'm really sore about that last part, incidentally. For the next little while, I'm going to firmly believe that the OSAP people are a bunch of raging smeghead horse's arses. But then, I'm just supremely bitter that I was denied money that would be put to excellent use for education, housing and necessities, because, on paper, it looks like my family doesn't need the extra cash to ensure I get an education, and don't, say...end up labelling the toes of the dearly departed in a morgue for the rest of my life!

It's been that kind of week. In 17 days, I've got to make an appearance as the featured poet at a poetry reading, and I'm writer's blocked down the ears. My father, constantly remiss in his parenting skills and support payments is fleeing the country. My mother's just been put on blood pressure medication. I'm supposed to call my grandmother nightly to make sure she doesn't need her toes tagged. Several friends are going through major life altering situations, and several more paid me angry phonecalls to let me know that I have a thoroughly wretched understanding of how my fingers should work in conjunction with my phone to dial their numbers once in awhile. Boy, do I ever feel like telling the world to bugger off.

I contemplated suicide today. Don't misunderstand me. The word "contemplated" has become so cliched that it's automatically assumed to mean; "I slashed my wrists/took the pills/shot myself." I just thought about it, until the more reasonable thought of fleeing the city came to mind. Years ago, I'd disappear without a trace for a few days to clear my head. When I developed "ties to my community," it became more difficult, and unfortunately, more desirable. So, I've got this great mental image of myself back- packing in Ireland, or lodging at a Nova Scotia inn, using up all my free time to write. Clearly, it's not going to happen, but it won't stop me from strapping a few squawking seagulls just out of range of a few smelly fish, on a lush and green field - just to give myself some of that foreign ambience. I hear that there are some recreational drugs that could probably help, but I have my doubts for all sorts of reasons.

Rob's in the next room, sleeping, which is just fantastic. I have nightmares of him dropping dead from the exhaustion of his days of work and gallavanting. I think, however, he's asleep in the middle of the bed. I've always had three approaches to that situation. 1) Gently nudge your partner over, murmuring reassuring words that everything is okay, move over honey goddam urk! 2) Stand at the end of the bed, whisking the sheets off your partner at an alarming, stage-magician speed and sleep on the floor. 3) Heave yourself bodily on the bed, and hope that the sheer shock of it forces your partner to scramble off the bed in terror. Claim the bed as your land by sovereign right, and negotiate territory only with those bearing cocoa. I'm sure Rob can later fill you in on which treatment he is subjected to.

Aside from this, I'm quite ready now to toss myself into sleep. The last annoyance gnawing away at my sanity is that, grammatically speaking, I am unable to classify the word, "the." If you know, for the love of cake, send mail! While you're at it, send a list of all the palindromes you know. Here's to hoping you've got smiles on your faces and damned fool ideas in your precious, vivacious heads. Goodnight audience. Don't trip on the ire on your way out.

Love & malice,

Broken.

J u l y 10

Work is going really well. I love it ever so much. I must admit to extreme exhaustion, but that's the price of having the horrible cravings for a social life that I do, and staying out till all hours. My only complaint is the eye strain you get from staring intently at a monitor for eight hours a day, while you alter images pixel by pixel. But almost everyone in the entire building -- and certainly in my section -- is a scientist (my particular group are all entomologists), which means they're eccentric but laid back, and every other door has collections of Far Side cartoons, because what does Gary Larson draw about if not insidious insects?

I signed my allegiance to the Queen today, when I was filling out forms that officialized my employment. Indeed, I truly am a civil servant now. And a taxpayer. Yipes. In a way, I was really hoping that my boss would take me aside, and say "Now that you've finished your third day on the job, and proven your loyalty to crown and country, we can tell you the real reason why you're here. I'd like you to join me in the war room in five minutes." It's not that I'm not fascinated with the implications of what I do, it's just that it'd be really cool for the occasional non work-related incident to disrupt things and allow me to display my naturally heroic inclinations. Like in Hollywood movies. I mean, why wouldn't a crack team of terrorists try to seize the Experimental Farm? I could tackle the giant runaway cows, even. I could mess up the asses of meddlesome stormtroopers in a pinch if I had to -- and bad.

Someday, my turn will come.

In other events, today was the birthday of my much-discussed friend Charlotte. Twenty-two years old, and still dimply as all heck. I'm still inclined to think my dimples are larger, but certainly she outclasses me when it comes to physical combat. She sure looks soft and cuddly -- and well, she is -- but that is the clever deception, for in actual fact, she is amassed with lots and lots of rock-solid muscles, and the power to make me into her screaming bitch.

We met after work, as often we do now, and explored the world, coming to such conclusions as discovering how difficult it is to really obtain those things you really know you want. No matter how hard you try. Or how much you offer in exchange. My example was love, but the fact that she was looking for a sensible, plain, watchband that didn't have gold-coloured buckles certainly still works. And probably works better, because lots of people are in love, but the perfect watchband is definitely an elusive and enigmatic creature.
The plan for the evening was to rendezvous with her older sister at some Italian restaurant or other, and the two of us would be buying Charlotte dinner (something we had individually been vying to do, and instead decided to make a groupish occasion of) in your typical Night on the Town style.

It was strangely comfortable. I worked with Charlotte's sister last summer, and we go to the same university, so I mean yeah, I know her, and we get along, but I also just really enjoyed myself. I think part of it is that she thinks I'm really funny, and when somebody thinks I'm funny, then I think I'm funny, and with that kind of encouragement, I sometimes actually even am funny. Or at least witty.

My favourite part was giving Charlotte her birthday present. This is the first time I've had any sort of money to spend on someone, really. So I went crazy.
Charlotte bought the slinkiest evening dress last week -- which, like many of her major purchases, was the result of my direct and seductive encouragement. It's not like I get a cut or anything, but the average person certainly might suspect such things. However, it must be said that Charlotte has impeccable taste, and all I really do is nod and smile and say stupid things like "Yeah, that looks really beautiful," which is in the end all the encouragement you really need when you have your heart set on something. Her excuse is that she just has the breasts to fit into things really well, and the funny thing about thinking about your best friend's breasts is that my ears turn pink when I blush.

But anyway, the salesgirl present during the dress incident probably rose to the top of her ranks very quickly, and probably by murdering her competition. Vicious little creature. She very aggressively and forcefully made a sale, using all the flattery and reason ("It's a g-r-e-a-t price for something like this. And it looks so good on you!") at the disposal of one working for commission. When Charlotte bought the dress, she considered accessorizing. So, she was showed this silver choker. It cost something like $50, so I assumed that somehow there was actually silver in it, and is bedecked with what can only be dazzlingly sparkly rhinestones or somesuch. It really made an impression, though, in a kind of Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis way. She didn't buy it or anything, and spent the next week searching for a suitable choker that made her as happy. I was with her for a lot of this. I actually like shopping, and I approve of my friend's recent foray into consumerism. We both have exciting, high-paying government jobs, after all, and she of late has been suffering the beginnings of a self-esteem problem. Body sculpting classes. She's taking body sculpting classes. Oh, it breaks my heart.

I'm the king of body image problems. I'd rather be seen with my bare bottom or dangly genitalia hanging in the wind than take my shirt off. I insult myself (figuring on beating others to the punchline) inumerable times each day. It's really pathetic. But to watch my friend go through this, this thing among everything else in her life, is dreadful. I think when she buys elegant clothing, in a way, it helps her feel beautiful. She'll read this and tell me I'm wrong, but I like to pretend I know better. In any event, it's only when someone's dolled up that it's really appropriate or allowed to talk about the fact that they look wonderful. As if they didn't anyway.

I bought her the necklace in the end. I was afraid she'd find something she liked better, or that it wasn't quite what she wanted, but ultimately it's what she hated the least. It's when someone's face utterly beams with delight at some small stupid thing I've done that I feel at my most awkward and enchanted. She put it on right there, and wore it all night. I know that reaction. It's the same reaction I get when I'm delighted and embarrassed and flattered and overwhelmed by something. She hugged me when she got it, and there's now this photo of us standing together, dramatically posed close together, in the sort of picture that her grandchildren will casually leer over someday in the distant future, with the bright and shiny object cradled around her neck. Photos of me are rare, I was probably smiling though.

I do a lot of dumb things. I could tell you stories. I could tell her stories. I write the more public ones in this little diary, whose subject matter varies, but nevertheless chronicles the events and people in my mind. Some deserve pity, some bring me sympathy, some even get people upset at the fact that my life isn't absolutely charmed, but a lot of what I've done in my life is just horrible. And / or stupid.

But I'm going to bed happy.

J u l y 8

I hate earwigs. I'm hoping maybe to discover some sort of affinity with them. Or at least come to a reconciliation or understanding. But I doubt it. I've been murdering every one of the creepy bastards that so much as crawls onto the front step at night, drawn by the bright lights and hidey holes of the house as they are.

But it's a swell job. I really do think I shall like it, and even justify their paying me money for sitting around and playing on the computer, which has so far been my concern. Performance anxieties. Everyone has them. Except mine have nothing at all to do with my penis, and instead focus on my shattered self-esteem.

It's actually rather a nice penis. Though you'd never know it to see the way that I so constantly threaten it with a carving knife.

But anyway.

The first part of my day involved manual labour. I was showed to my office, and asked to clean it up a little. You know. The gentleman to previously occupy its cozy walls died sometime this past year, and they've been using it for storage and the spare PC ever since. Since I'm an astonishingly anal retentive person (for all of my otherwise confusing mania and crippling powers of depression), I set about this with relish. There's nothing like a good work environment to preserve the sanity. I found a big empty box and filled it with files and memorandum and paper that no longer served any purpose. I put all the specimen boxes filled with intricately impaled insects onto shelves, under the counter, and otherwise happily and safely away from my clumsy hands and sneezes.

It only really took about half an hour. I moved a little furniture around to give myself some more space, and before you knew it, my space was downright productive. People were actually impressed with the changes. Not that I worked miracles... but certainly it showed that I meant business. And also, I suppose, that I didn't respect the dead very much.
But we'll try to work past that perception. It can only invite trouble.
Trouble from the dead.

Then I learned how to scan. I knew of the general procedure, at least, and I was comforted that the big flatbed sex-toy was of precisely the same make and capacity as that belonging to the person who scanned all of my artwork on my web page, so it quickly became easy for me.

The next part of the morning was decidedly less certain. I had to get the computer working properly for our purposes. It's a Pentium - 75 with sixteen megabytes of RAM, and even its own CD-ROM. Not the most advanced machine, but remember ye well that I'm typing this Snivel out on my precious 386. Still, it was fun to load Netscape in ten seconds. The only problem was that the system was on a LAN -- something which I haven't used since high school, and hadn't at all missed. S-L-O-W.
Slow.

The internet connection was fried for awhile, so I couldn't do a whole lot. I think that's when they got me to take a coffee break. In any event, ultimately the system went back up, but only intermittently. And while there was real potential for this concept (at one point I downloaded WinZip off the net, and was astonished to see -- WHOOSH -- 300 KB flash by in a matter of a couple of seconds. Then it froze up again. But it was still faster than my computer would have handled it at 14.4... I can only imagine that on the weekend, it would fly), it took half an hour to download PaintShop (which while I use it tremendously often, is still an evil, evil program), during which time I twiddled my thumbs and wished I knew how to use the phone.

Though I later learned that you have to press "8."

That really rocked, too. My own phone. I'm still not even sure if I can figure out what all the buttons do. I even got put on the switchboard in case anybody had to talk to me. And an office, and a PC. And granted, none of it will never be acknowledged as "The office of Rob F., the university brat we pay to sit around for two months and click a mouse," but I love -- absolutely adore -- the autonomy. To work, unassisted, unharrassed, unsupervised, with trust put into my abilities and my work ethic. Makes me feel like a big man.

But lunch was weird. I was flattered by my boss' offer to accompany him and the other scientists over to the larger cafeteria in another building (our cafeteria serves its purpose, but clearly there is a preference for the other... I must remember to check it out. Government food. Mmmm.), but I was shy and bashfully declined. I had coffee during break with them that morning, and thought they were all clever, interesting and articulate gentlemen, but I knew that I couldn't contribute much with my witty banter and entomological ignorance.
Since I was still baffled by my phone, I left to visit the Civic Hospital across the street, and make use of its bank machine and pay phones, such as to call my dear friend Broken and tell her how my day was going.

I dropped my watch after I happily hung up the phone. My beloved pocketwatch. Fifteen dollar gem from a Dollar Store, faithful timepiece that never lost a single second over its many stylish months of service, and suddenly it didn't work. I pouted the way I did last fall when my Cherry Cheesecake ice cream fell off the cone and onto Sparks Street, leaving me crushed and empty, with a cracked and hopeless shell of a cone in my sticky hands. Dreadful (the epilogue to that tale was a heartachey and sweet Broken running back inside to get me another ice cream cone).

Thus began my afternoon.

Sulkily, I walked back into the main doors to begin my afternoon. But this big security guard took one look at me and insisted I show him my pass. I stammered and blinked, explaining that I worked there, wondering if I was going to be detained for looking like riffraff. And he just shrugged and told me to go on ahead, then. It's a sweetly casual workplace. No one even cares about my shock of purple and blue hair. But still, it was humbling to be made to feel like an undesirable element. Someone's nogoodnik son or nephew.

I was also locked out when I got back upstairs. Every single door except the bathrooms has a keypad on it, and in the lunch emptiness, the doors that lead to my office had blown shut, and automatically were soundly locked. So I just stood there and waited, stupidly eating my egg salad sandwich. Eventually my boss got back from lunch, sort of looked at me and walked past, wondering what I was doing exactly, and then when he got to his door, he called back to me -- "Oh, geez -- did you get locked out?" So I'm now the proud receptacle for a number of keypad combinations. Thankfully.

I really like it there. My coworkers are pleasant and intelligent, and the environment is easy-going and swell. I also get paid more than ten smackarooneys an hour. Just for clicking a mouse. I mean, I do that at home. And all I got was this stupid web page. But in a way it got me the job, because it demonstrated my ability to work diligently and creatively in just this field. The only glitch was that almost everything we did today was ruined because of a mistake that was made in specifying to me the requirements for the images. You know -- just a stupid thing. 275 x 300 pixels, instead of 300 x 275 pixels. Oh well. If I'm not actually to blame, I'll deal with it. Otherwise, the guilt would probably be driving me insane as we speak.

My day was topped off with a delightful evening with Charlotte. My time is already booked solid till Thursday. I find that I'll be better able to get settled into the workaday routine if I have something to look forward to at the end of my day. Hanging out with her made today extra keen, in spite of my exhausted lack of animation. Buying her dinner for her 22nd birthday will occupy my Wednesday.

Her boyfriend called her last night, and again today, leading to a lot of pain and tears on her part. He's a million miles away right now, missing her terribly, and rightfully so. She was curt with him at the beginning, having been caught off guard and confronted with feelings and questions that she had put away when he left. She even called him back -- I think he was in Calgary -- to apologize for hurting his feelings.

It's awful to see my friend in even a little pain. She's usually the strong, happy one, when I'm suffering some episode or other. She helps me through pain. But there are times when I'm needed, too.
I'm not sure if she should feel that bad for the way she feels. I've spent a lot of time being the Devil's advocate, but it only goes so far for me. I want her to be happy, and that's what he's capable of, but there ought not to be any apologies needed right now. She was left alone when he was needed more than anything, and while that's not exactly his fault, it's not hers for being unhappy. I've never met him, but he's sweet, and charming, and thoughtful. When she thinks about him, these big fat tears roll down her face. I don't think I've ever seen her care this way for someone. Never so seriously.

He means well, and there's no doubt about that. He truly loves her, and she loves him. I know she does, even when she's uncertain of exactly the nature of her feelings. Her resentment is fueled by her loneliness. Her evasive ways -- asking him not to call, or write, until he gets back -- are just to stop the awful ache of needing that one person she really want beside her.

As Max, the 2000 year old mouse has been known to say in an infuriatingly perky voice -- "I should know. I was there!"

Drat. Work.

Goodnight.

J u l y 7

Smiths Falls tapwater. Cloudy and reviled by the world, it nevertheless has embued two otherwise average and unassuming bitter geniuses with eerie powers.

Government employees by day.
Vinyl-clad crimefighters by night.
Pow.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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