toot

National Discount Brokers
• 1. dial 1-800-888-3999 (it's free)
• 2. listen to the options
• 3. when you hear what number 7 is press number 7
• (WAIT FOR IT, don't jump right to 7)

I'm back on CalTrain again, this time on my way to work. Somehow I always end up on the train; I don't mind, particularly. Insofar as my various commuting means go, the Caltrain is actually one of the most comfortable. This way I can pick and choose the exact time that I want to be at work, and can even sleep in -- a miracle of convenience for me, these days. Last night, for instance, I actually got almost eight hours of sleep. This entire past week has been spent wallowing in such luxury.

This week I'm back on the workwagon, but I needed that time. I've been feeling nauseous and queasy for the last week or so, and better that I'm a little late to work now and then than missing an entire week or so by getting sick.

Oh, here we go. The train is moving. I do so enjoy train travel.

Chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-choooo! chooooo!

Once more into the fray. My sister has announced that she's going to pick me up at eight o'clock with her boyfriend and, yes, yet again, that blind date that I managed to get out of the first time by a pure coincidence that had nothing to do with me. She's determined. Fine. Let's get it over with, and we'll move on with our lives.

Every morning on my way to work, no matter what the time, the bus I ride takes me through the heart of Chinatown, where we pass an open white truck filled with stack upon stack of dead pig carcasses. Besides the obvious, there's something quite unsettling about the sight of all those gaping pink mouths, and the fat, meaty bodies. Their rumps have tattoos on them in a dark blue color. This little truck of death drives up and down the Chinatown streets, dropping off bodies at a great many of the stores that it passes. That's another unnerving sight; the Chinese deliveryman, who can't be more than 5 foot 2 inches, stomping his way down the sidewalk with a pig hooked over his shoulder. Did I mention they use hooks? One unfortunate morning when the bus stopped right by the truck, I watched while this guy used a massive fishhook at least the size of my head to stab pig heads and drag their bodies out of the truck.

The body was cold and old enough that there wasn't any blood. I watched it sink in and come out of the eyeball; the deliveryman, I think, was swearing. I suppose it wasn't supposed to do that. Imagining that giant iron Thing slice in under the jaw and squish its way through the throat, slicing past the skull to savage the brain, then impale and burst an eyeball like an olive on a toothpick--

I haven't eaten pork in almost a year.

I've been working on finding a new apartment, one down in the Redwood City area. The weather is nicer there, and the city is quieter; I'll have to commute from time to time back up to San Francisco for classes, but that isn't any more of a burden than the daily commute that I have right now. Limiting it to one or two days a week would certainly be an improvement. San Francisco is wasted on me: the life, the activity, the events; I never get out of the apartment because the commute is so long, by the time I get back home, I'm exhausted and fretful, and still have homework to go.

Ignore other people's complaints about high rent; I'm looking for something under $1200 a month, and if I find it, I'll probably grab it. Damn the consequences. That's cheap.

I think one of the Chicken Family has lung cancer.

I sit in my room late at night, doing whatever it is that I do, and I hear him, hacking, coughing, phlegm rattling in his throat. It's an irritating sound, and it's consistent; every night, starting at eight, he starts. I can actually hear bubbles of pus rattling in his throat.

San Francisco. That lovely city. It's like fingernails scratching down the chalkboard of life.

(toooot! Toooooot!)

My sister! Oh, my sister. She gave me a present.

A very, very cool present.

She gave me a lucite ball. A lucite ball, in case anybody's wondering, is way, way cooler than a crystal ball. It doesn't chip so easily, for one thing. It's durable. It's reflective.

And, you can use it to do that thing that David Bowie did in Labyrinth, with the balls and the bubbles and the hands and the ... you know. That. "Contact Juggling," according to the book that she gave me together with the ball. I spent the entire first night practicing catching the ball on the back of my hand, while my sister crashed in a sleeping bag on the floor. I almost brained her a couple of times. It was a quiet night, interspersed with the "thunk, thunk" of the ball hitting my fingers, and the occasional "Thud. 'Ow.' 'Sorry.'" of my mistakes.

The train stopped. Why did the train stop, dammit? I'm going to be late. Later. Late. Crap.

(Toooooooooooooooot!)

Time to backtrack a little, I suppose. Time for a different entry. I'm tired of this one; I need another one, and it's only two more weeks until Japan. Need a new entry. Need a new title. Need a new picture to go with the new title. I'll call it.... Posted by yhirata at October 16, 2000 09:57 PM