Writing on the bus.

I know, I have been a terrible blogger as of late. I promise to write more and I don't... Well, that's in part because I vent my emotions to Ross so it sometimes seems redundant if I do it here, too. The other reason is that I want to redesign this blog but I haven't been able to procure a copy of Photoshop for my Macboo yet. The (illegal) version on my old Dell is useless because the computer can't handle it.

So, here I am, writing this on my smartphone (yay Moto Q!) because reading books and writing on paper gives me a headache while I ride but this doesn't. Huh. I'm sure it is just all in my head, as usual.

I'm on my way to see my psychiatrist and, as of today, my new employer. Dr. Hardrict is perhaps the kindest person I've ever met (aside from Ross, though I guess I'm biased). When I expressed my concerns about finding a job because my credentials and professional references were lacking, considering the few jobs there are probably have a bajillion applicants, he said, "Well then, what do you think about working for me?"

My jaw dropped. I had to ask if he was really serious and he said, "Of course, I could really use the help." I knew he'd been running his small, private office by himself since his last secretary/office worker left, but I'd supposed than he didn,t need as much help since he cut back on his client load there. He said he could really use the help and that it could be incredibly beneficial for us both.

I am absolutely esctatic about it. I will be there three days every week working three hours a day. It is a consistent schedule, I will be paid once a week, and if I have problems or issues in regards to my anxiety and whatnot I will have THE most understanding boss on the planet. I won't have to be afraid to go because if I am anxious or panicky, what better place to be than your doctor's office?

I am truly grateful for all that Dr. Hardrict has done for me since the very beginning of my mental troubles. I hope I can do an excellent job while working for him. It is the least I can do to repay him for helping me to recover.

p.s. There are probably a ton of typos and misspellings in this entry. I'll maybe fix it when I get home.

I hate Anti-Stratfordians.

Anti-Stratfordians are the people who think that William Shakespeare's plays were not written by a man named William Shakespeare from Statford-upon-Avon.

I don't like them. I don't like them, not one bit.

I can understand why some scholars might speculate that these brilliant pieces of literary genius could not have ever been written by some country boy who had only a junior high-equivalent education (well, by their standards - I don't know any junior high kids who have studied Latin and ancient Greek). Still, I think the theory is stupid because it misses the point. Even if you have years of rigorous academic training at Oxford or wherever that does not make you a talented writer or poet. It just makes you really, really studious.

Granted, I'm not saying Shakespeare wasn't intelligent. I think he was someone who was very smart and gifted but simply did not have the means to attend university. He seems to me like he was the self-study type. I also think he had a natural-born talent for writing and putting words together. Some would call it "God-given talent", but being that I'm an atheist, I'm going to simply say that he got two copies of the recessive AWESOME gene from the 'rents.

Still, what irks me about the whole thing is that the Anti-Stratforidans are incredibly arrogant. They think that just because the man didn't go to college or wasn't part of the aristocracy that he couldn't have written these works. They look down upon the man we know as William Shakespeare because he wasn't an upper class gentleman. You don't have to be in the upper class to be talented.

Le sigh. I know, this whole post is probably a little silly-sounding to most people. I was just working on my Shakespeare homework and it started to bother me again. I needed to let that out.

Bill Shakespeare's mah homeboy. Don't mess with him, or I'll mess with 'chu.

<3

New sorta-kinda job.

That's right. I "sorta-kinda" got a new job.

I'm not really allowed to say here details about what I do, but it's an independent contractor position where I reply to texts from customers.

...and before you jump to conclusions, it is NOT phone sex.

I can't get into details, because I'm "kinda-sorta" under contract not to tell publicly. If you know me in person you can go ahead and ask, though. I'm not working for the government so it's not like the CIA is spying on me. Well, okay, since this is the United States under the Bush administration, the CIA probably is spying on me anyway. Le sigh...

The point of my even mentioning it here is so that you all know that I am "kinda-sorta" now employed! Yay! Whoo hoo!!! I'm getting back into the freelancing as well. It's a good way to make money and not feel the pressure of *BUM BUM BUUUUUM* actual employment.

Other than that, the other big news right now is that we had to take one of our guinea pigs, Happy, to the vet tonight. The poor little guy... We're not quite sure what happened, but we think Harry got a little crabby or something and Happy's eye got injured. Again, we can't know for sure, but we heard a very loud squeal and rushed over to see what was up. Ross reached in the cage and grabbed the first pig he could reach, which happened to be Happy, and we checked him over. We immediately noticed that his left eye was discolored and there was some blood down by the eyelid. He wasn't actively bleeding, but we were still very concerned so we put in a call to an emergency vet in St. Paul. They recommended we bring him in, and although perhaps many guinea pig owners would have simply waited until Monday morning to take him to the vet, Ross and I love our piggy guys so much we couldn't bear to wait all night without knowing what was up.

After procuring a Zipcar (and a really cool one at that - a Honda Civic hybrid!), we arrived at the emergency vet within an hour of discovering Happy's injury. The clinic is a small place on University avenue within blocks of the state capital. I parked the car facing the street and as I was turning it off I happened to look at the building across the street. It was a small shop called "Hmongland". Now, this wasn't especially remarkable really, considering the neighborhood we were in has a lot of Hmong people living in it, but it happened to spark a rather amusing memory from the other day. Ross was just telling me about how his racist-yet-endearing grandfather had called and reminded him to "be careful our critters didn't escape or the Hmongs would eat 'em".

We decided it would be best not to tell his grandpa about this adventure so close to "Hmongland". Ross figured his grandpa would say something along the lines of, "Well, I guess if they don't save 'em at that place they just send them 'cross the street so the Hmongs can eat 'em!"

It's horrible, I know, but he's pretty sure his grandpa would say something like that, and subsequently remember awhile afterwards that he probably shouldn't.

We walked in, handed the little pink critter carrier over to the vet tech, and filled out the usual paperwork. They wanted to know some of the basics, like how old he was, if he had access to timothy hay, what we feed him, any other pets in house, etc. I was in a hurry, as always, so I scribbled things down pretty quickly. When the question, "Has your pet been on any different foods?" (or something to that effect) came up I checked yes and wrote down "previous owners" on the line next to it. I'd already moved onto the next question when Ross started to giggle.

"...So he used to eat his previous owners?"

Okay, so all joking aside, we were still very worried about our little Happy. While we were waiting for the vet to examine him, we chatted a bit with the vet tech. We mentioned how we figured he was overweight (well, he is rather chubby!) and she informed us that they did weigh him: almost three pounds! Sadly, there's not a whole lot you can do to put guinea pigs on a diet, especially when they live in your kitchen and they come up to the cage and gnaw on the bars whenever you open the refridgerator.

So, to make an already long story slightly less novelesque, the vet gave us some antibiotics and some pain medication for him and recommended that we take him into our normal vet if he doesn't get better in a few days. She commented on the report that he was an "opinionated guinea pig who is very nibbly". I was a little offended by that, because she didn't seem to take into account the fact that the poor little guy was hurt, scared, and with a bunch of strange people poking stuff in his already-injured eye.

Plus, he's not too bright and thinks just about everything is edible.

Have a good night, kids. I'd better go check on some silly piggies.