October 8, 1999.

I'm playing with computer toys as we speak. There's something impossibly seductive about a CD writer, something subtly Satanic about the whole process. But at least I can discharge old dub obligations in style.

The last couple of days haven't been that exciting. I'm becoming quite frustrated with my mailroom job. The whole reason I'm there is to assist a woman who was seriously injured in a car accident 2 months ago, while she figures out what parts of her old job she can still do. She appears ready to cut me adrift in a couple of weeks, as she's convinced that that's how long I'll be needed.

The problem is that she's a nice woman living on Mars. She can't perform repetitive motions with a single sheet of paper (the largest & most basic component of the job), let alone pack pounds of paper & assorted crap into mailbags once a week. The job makes me feel weak & dizzy...and I'm hale & healthy (if weak as a little girl).

The fact that my continued employment rests therefore on a set of imaginary co-ordinates is proving quite bad for morale. I can't figure out why I should care about performing my job well, since I will receive no tangible benefits from competence.

Translation: work sucks; nobody loves me.

Today was my special ed day. It was less depressing than irritating. I've grown to hate library times: it's hard enough to keep them to task in a closed classroom without letting them loose in a large area with sight-line barriers everywhere.

The behavior case came back today (he was suspended last week). In old-tyme parlance, he's a boy who was born to be hung. I approached him in the morning to explain an assignment he'd missed, and he ignored me in the most hostile fashion possible. I tried touching him to get his attention; he reacted as if we were in a maximum security lockup. I found it incredibly difficult to figure out when to back off...too soon & no one gets anything done, too late & your head starts to bleed from beating it against the wall. I'm told that with the behavior case, I don't have to push as much as the other kids. They'll actually do things when pushed; he won't. So I don't worry my pretty little head about him.

I'll reiterate: born to be hung.

But I did have a rather bright moment in the afternoon: the teacher of my junior high gifted program was wandering around while I was running a supplies errand, and we managed a non-awkward meeting. She's something special...I really loved her in my pre-teens. She started singing my praises to Jee (who was responding in kind), then my head got too big to stay in the class & I fled back to my special ed assignment where no one appreciates me excessively. Or very much at all.

Semi-amusing footnote: when presented with the above problems, my father has responded with dazzling callousness. I don't find the advice, "I guess you'll have to toughen up; some things are like that" appropriate to the situation, let alone nurturing.

Q says that I shouldn't be living at home. I consider it significant that this was unsolicited advice...Q almost never begins a conversation with a preemptory statement. I was touched.