Office life suits me. A receptionist's job is one of leisure, at least around this place. I read books and the news and funny things on websites, and I answer the phone. Sometimes I photocopy things. Occasionally typing is required. But mostly... I read. It is quite possibly the perfect job, and I am sublimely happy doing it, for these three weeks. Eventually the happiness will fade, and I'll go back to the frumpy, dust-covered book store, filled with hygienically-challenged customers who have every intention of picking something up, but absolutely no intention of paying for it.

Anyhow. The craziest part of this desk job is that one of the big wiggs is none other than my mum's ex-girlfriend. The woman I never looked at as a second mother, but more like a grown-up best friend who I loved like the real thing. My mom and A, they were going to be together forever. That was just the way things were going to happen - although I always kind of had a hard time imagining them as two old ladies together - the way my parents where never able to make work.
And then one night, I was in bed, reading, and my mom and A came downstairs to talk to me. I wish I could remember what exactly they told me, but obviously they were breaking up. I do remember crying until I didn't think I would ever cry again - not because I wouldn't want to, but because surely, this had to be all of the salty water and mucus my body could ever possibly create, and here I was, expelling it at a rapid pace.
I found out in the days to come that not only were the two people I loved the most not going to be together anymore, but my mom and my brother and I would be moving out of the house.
The House. The house I grew up in. The house I watched transform into something kind of ugly, into something completely comfortable and warm; the house I learned how to read in, had Chicken Poz in, had my first kiss... nearby to. It was the most perfectest place to me; still is, even. My own Shangri-La. Our life then, while nothing spectacular, was so blissfully happy, and normal. We were such a terrific family.
And then it was gone, one day, some of it packed into the boxes, the rest of it left behind. I cried a lot, that first week, because this wasn't my life, my life was in that house, why couldn't we still be in that house? Only it wasn't my life that had stayed behind, obviously; what had remained in that house was my childhood. I was only 13 when we moved, but the second we did, I couldn't be a kid anymore, I had to grow up. It had to be fast, and I had to be strong(er), so that we could make this work. We didn't, mind you. We had no money. We moved from place to place, always hoping that the next one would be better; we could afford this one, and we never could, and on and on it went. Scraping and fighting and struggling to keep our heads above the water, but it seemed were always just short. Worry became the biggest, most imporant word in my vocabulary, since that was all we did. Good god, that was almost 10 years ago, and here I am today, still scraping.

So I work with A now, and every time I hear her voice, it brings me back to that house. To that time of summer vacations and crazy birthday parties, of family dinners and dogs and that Sega Genesis. It makes my heart hurt. My first day, I got all teary, it came up on me so sharp and so fast, that sudden recollection of the happiest time of my life - localized entirely within the sound of her voice. She's so mean now, maybe it's bitterness, I don't know. There is so much about her that is exactly the same, though, it's like I'm 10 again, watching her, only we're wearing nicer clothes. It hurts a lot, I wish it didn't.

When I was a kid, I could never understand why A loved grocery shopping so much. Grocery stores were the most foulest place in the world to me, they were cold and filled with people and it was boring. But she always loved it, I thought it was crazy. Today she told me it was to get away from us. Perspective's a funny thing.

Listen, Anonymous.

It really doesn't matter what kind of comments you post here. It doesn't matter how thouroughly thought-out, well-planned, impeccably-worded, scathing, biting, "hurtfully truthful" what you have to say is - no matter what kind of a dazzling display of sarcastic, intellectual trash-talking you feel you're presenting for all to see - I will always have something funnier, smarter, and more relevant to respond with.

Seriously! I'm telling you now that there is no point to your mindless "belittlement", or whatever you would call it, because a) I don't care, and b) the people who read this?; they don't care either. Now of course, obviously I do in fact care on some level, otherwise I obviously wouldn't be responding to you. However, it has absolutely nothing to do with a desire to prove you wrong - for surely, that is written all over everything you say - but because I DO love me a good, old-fashioned catfight. And let's face it, all fights on the internet are catfights.

So if you would like to insist on continuing this senseless exchange of petty diatribe, I will by all means humour your wishes, and respond in kind to any negative things you feel you need to say to and about me.

I have to admit, I am curious about who you are... I only gave this address to my friends, so you are either one of them, or a random nothing. Your refusal to leave some kind of name points to the former, but your lack of knowledge about the kind of person I am points to the latter. *shrug* Time will tell.

Ciao!

Yeah, I'll admit it; I've never seen Reservoir Dogs. I'm not a big Tarantino fan. Not because I've got anything against the guy, I mean I loved Kill Bill, who didn't. Sin City, a glorious feat of cinematic accomplishment. Four Rooms... freaked me out a little, because I first saw it when I was 14, awake at 2 a.m., and totally unprepared for the body underneath that bed. I don't even remember the segment Tarantino directed. I've seen seen snippets of Pulp Fiction, but I just never got around to seeing the whole thing, nor Reservoir Dogs, nor Jackie Brown; The Classics.

I have, not but 30 minutes ago, finished sitting through my very first screening of Reservoir Dogs. Finally. After all this time. After aaall these people saying, "Omg, you've never seen Reservoir Dogs, what the christ, it's so awesome, you don't even know. Tarantino is like a fricking genius man." No shit. But let me tell YOU something, everyone.

I hated that movie. Yeah, I hated it, and it wasn't because everyone dies, or the blood, or any other girly reason. The cinematography was fantastic; the acting first fucking rate (although I really dislike Michael Madsen, the only thing I've ever loved him in was Free Willy); the script and the soundtrack were awesome... But all in all, I found that movie to be a complete waste of my time. There was no point to it. "Nono, see, it's like... it's about the MEN, and a robbery gone bad, and what criminals will do to and for each other and like, yeah, it's about relationships," you might tell me, and if I did, I would reply to you with a swift and cutting, "Fuck you, son," because it just barely told a story. Just. Barely. And personally, I watch movies to be told stories. They don't have to be happy stories, or fun stories, or stories about unicorns (although that is a definite +10,000 to my rep with the director), but they should be GOOD stories. In MY opinion. I'm sure a lot of you think a story about a bunch of guys who fuck up a diamond heist, and all get their asses SHOT is a good story, but I don't, and so I hated Reservoir Dogs, and was indeed exceptionally pissed off that I did. And, consequently, pissed off at all the people who told me it was a "fucking awesome" movie, which is a lot of god damn people, so you can imagine how mad I am right now.

So that's it, that's my thing, I hated Reservoir Dogs, and I hate you for liking it, so you go to hell. You go to hell and you DIE.