The self-realization du jour is that I have a hard time figuring out what people are thinking, especially as it pertains to me. I almost always assume the worst, or when I don’t the worst happens and I’m surprised.

For example, when M. and I fight, even when I know that he is overwhelmed by other pressures that have nothing to do with me or the “relationship,” I figure it’s because he has doubts and doesn’t really want to be with me. (Of course, it doesn’t help that he is every bit as much of the drama queen that I am and is given to express himself as though everything is wrong.) So, then I worry that I am spending time with someone who secretly hates me and my life is a sham, blah blah.

Conversely, and/or perversely, when I finally reach a feeling of comfort in a situation, holy hell breaks loose, shit falls apart and destruction ensues. Take my last job, for example. Stellar annual reviews, repeated reassurances that no matter what I was a valued cog in the wheel, reorganization meetings up the ass and my belief that the head of my area understood and “got” me and wanted my contributions around. Let’s just say I was completely wrong on all of the above and quite surprised at the manner of proof.

What you have then is my acting opposite to what is “normal” as a result of almost all external stimuli. Jesus, maybe I’m just callous and really dim?

Bringing us back to fighting and all, I just don’t know how to do it and still believe that the embattled opponent doesn’t hate me to a depth beyond what Bush feels for Saddam. How could M. not despise me?

(Much the same way a very young me assumed my aunt would never talk to me again after some childish slight. Then, my burgeoning social retardation was already apparent. I had reasoned, I did X wrong. My aunt would not like X. Therefore, my aunt should not like me and has every right to eliminate my existence from her presence. Imagine my surprise when she became angry at me not for X (which had already made me truly believe in my loathesomeness), but because I would think she was so shallow as to dismiss me, her niece, so easily and readily.)

My point being, I guess, I still have the emotional depth of a seven-year-old, and as M. leaves town, I will feel both sad that he won’t be around and I’ll miss him (and him, me) and that he secretly harbors ill will and hides it by acting as though he does actually care about me. Tricky.

Reasoning that if it’s good enough for 7-Eleven, it’s good enough for me, I’ve revamped the poll in the right hand corner to meet the mood of the next few weeks.

If nothing else, I should likely determine that my readership leans a bit left.

In August, I posted the results of the poll as to whether should move to California.

To refresh, I ended the poll at 100 votes and 83 percent of the dee-rob.com reading public voted that I should leave. (I like to perversely ponder that there are 83 people who want me the fuck out of their town and/or state and/or general vicinity.)

Today, the M. Poll has hit 100 voters. The results are:

M. goes East/M. stays West
100 votes

Should the amazing M. come on back to be feted at his return?
5 %
5 votes

Should M. keep his Cali mellow and stay in the Golden West?
95 %
95 votes

In opposition (or maybe that’s aposition, but who the fuck cares), I like to non-perversely ponder that M. knows 95 people who either recognize where he belongs or want him to stay in their physical proximity.

Since we both tend to worry that decisions are right and good and mutually beneficial, maybe this survey provides a little background data on how things should work out. Clearly, there is a mandate for him to stay in California. As for me, it’s less of a mandate that I should move, but it’s hardly the kind of poll numbers that would require a rigging of the numbers.

I had to buy a new digital camera, and I’m still working on the details on settings and all.

I liked how this pic from the Topsfield Fair educational program on falconry came out (it’s a kestrel, I think American):

This one was my tribute to their tribute to the eagle (someone stuck a flag behind it). I think it’s a Golden Eagle, though, not the American Bald Eagle:

Check here for more photos.

I can’t at the moment decide how petty I am. I put boxes and bags outside my house (on the side of my property not on the street). The pile is well-labeled that it is for Big Brother/Big Sister. Unfortunately, Big Brother’s truck was full today, so they have to come back another time.

I understand BB/BS’s problem. It’s a bit frustrating for me, since I can’t trust the weather to leave so many things outside. But, what can you do? No big deal.

What I feel might be petty, however is my reaction to someone in my neighborhood. Throughout the day, a chick has been coming by and taking a few of the boxes and bags for herself. I’m giving the stuff to charity, so I can’t really mind someone removing the middleman, right?

(I know it’s a chick, because that is the small bit I understood from my old Portuguese neighbors who witnessed two of the takings. For one the old man got her to stop, and for the other, I think, his wife interceded to say it’s cool, since I’m getting rid of the stuff anyway. I don’t have the language necessary to explain why from my tax deduction point of view and the fact I have already made arrangements with BB/BS it’s not exactly the same. Whatever.)

But, I was just walking back from the laundromat, and the bag and box-taking chick had piled the three bags she took (now each half-full) on her curb for trash pickup. Apparently, based on the fact that the bags had been completely full and now were half, there were some items that met her taste or standards. The rest to her is trash. I guess the household stuff in boxes is her treasure, since that hasn’t hit the street (yet).

Fuck you, bitch, if you are going to steal from a charity, at least have the courtesy to give the shit you don’t want back to them.

Now, I’m trying to figure out what signage might convince her or others to do that without allowing them to strew my shit all over or whether I should just shrug and let it go.

I gotta get out of this place.

I must say that I was a tad disappointed at the VP debate. I really wanted Cheney to let it slip that he stays alive by feasting on the blood of minority babies.

Ah well. I wonder whether Dick chuckles at his own cynicism when he smugly says stuff like “I chose to go into public service” in a tone redolent with “Edwards you lawyer whore.” Public servant Dick scrimping and sacrificing, unlike some people…

How does a guy who ran a company that hires out mercenary construction workers to Iraq crank himself up to sound all moral high horsey? Probably calls his lesbian daughter, lets GW read him a bible verse, then downs a shot of bourbon and listens to his pacemaker click. I guess dyke-spawning, Jesus and cheating death would make you feel all tingly and invincible.

His face was so smug during the debate, I kind of expected him to start rolling his eyes and playing with his pen or doodling.

Just put eight or nine (it’s dark and they’re black, so who’s counting) large garbage bags of clothes, bedding and towels and nine boxes of various household items and miscellaneous treasure, including an entire box of toys, in the side alley of my house. If all goes well, Big Brother/Big Sister will pick everything up at 7 a.m. or so.

I get a tax deduction, they get some actually pretty good stuff.

I’m focused and really trying to jettison stuff even if it is in good shape or tugs at my it could be useful instinct. I did pull one thing out of the leaving pile, a craft kit to use an inkjet printer to put whatever you want on a silk scarf. I don’t know, I just have too many ideas for dumb things that would amuse me to wear around my neck.

Feeling good that some stuff is out the door and on it’s way out of my life. I feel even better that a phone call today offers a glimpse into a future path for making a living. I really think I can help set up and get rolling, contribute to and moderate a company’s weblog, and when the project hits the web, I’ll probably write something appropriate here.

The best thing of all with the conference call is that they all knew a bit about my story. There was no need for me to dodge the what happened with your last position bullet. The kharmic twist, which I think actually fits nicely with the non-psychotic, non-violent reality I live, is that I will probably also help them to create policies on ‘blogging for their company. I guess that’s kind of like former criminals who help businesses create security.

And, the mastermind behind this grand scheme of getting my writing, ‘blogging, technology groove on in a potentially paying gig? None other than the legendary M. Sometimes I think his postitive outlook has to be an act or something. But, you know, maybe a little optimism might not kill a girl every now and again. It does dull my tragic, unemployed, working-class heroine character, though.

Too bad I blocked the IP address of the certain group of people whose prying eyes I got tired of seeing on my webstats. I would enjoy their knowing that their stupidity didn’t kill me.

The other day, I started humming “Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me” and then listened to it a few times (both Warren and Linda Ronstadt).

As far as good writing goes, I want to be like the late, great Warren Zevon. He’s funnier and wittier than most comedy I sit through in a week. To my mind, there is just something simple, straightforward and enviable about the following:

She really worked me over good
She was a credit to her gender
She put me through some changes, Lord
Sort of like a Waring blender

The Waring blender reference gets me every time.