Feeling: energetic
Listening to: Finger Eleven - Thousand Mile Wish
Reading/Watching: Virginia Woolf - Mrs. Dalloway

After messing with it out of boredom for five-and-ten-minute spans since yesterday, I finally figured out the puzzle that is Grow Cube.

Took me a few dozen tries before I finally figured out the sequence (since the first dozen were spent wondering what the hell the point was, I say this is not bad). You know you've won when you see this:

I want to make someone a mix CD. I have all these fun songs buzzing around in my head, and several of them are wearing nametags, like little presents to be shared with specific people. It's part of why I make people mixes: I want to give them a handful of songs that I think they need to hear. Often, the message is carefully hidden between twice as many meaningless fun songs that make you boogie in your chair, but if you listen to words, suddenly every third tune has a little rib-poke in it.

I still take pride in the fact that when I made Satan his Mephistopheles mix (hidden message: "get over the bitchwhore, she's not worth it"), he kinda hated it, and only listened to one out of every four songs. But when I kept a copy for myself (because obviously, I loved them all for specific moods), my little brother confiscated it after I played it in his car, and used it as catharsis to vent about the high school ex-sweetheart who was tying him in knots. Who knew my little Puppy could howl Alkaline Trio's "Radio" with such emphasis?

I'm only thinking this because, naturally, "Radio" is playing, and I'm enjoying the viciousness of the words, singing at the top of my lungs while mon coeur sends me dubious looks from the couch, in the company of his loving pixel-wife. I love you, boyface. I just enjoy evil songs.

Anyway. Tonight during closing, Terry blared Disturbed over the loudspeakers and I headbanged my way through the closing down checklist, wheeling those huge merchandise carts to and fro (the "fro" bit is always easier on the triceps). Last night it was some sort of indie-rock mix with Interpol and crap, so one of these days I intend to cart in some Moxy Fruvous or Richard Cheese and see what kind of reaction it gets.

We're also doing a rehaul just before September, which means I have a ton of stuff to pull off the shelves every week (aside from my usual manning/womanning of the cash register and setting out new frou frou stuff on the front tables), and when I first got my list, I was kind of scared out of my wits, because I wasn't sure what the hell I was doing, or when I'd have the time. But then I noticed that they didn't give this responsibility to everyone. They gave it to managers, and booksellers who've been there a long time... and me. Which actually makes me feel quite cool. So I got instructions from my manager, and then combed through the mountains of seductively pretty blank journals (those things are the devil, I tell you), trying to find the specific ones they wanted without benefit of titles, going only by item ID number and occasionally, a two-word description.

And I finished that tonight, after polishing off gift books, large print books, and those little mini-crap kits by the checkout counter. The manager laughed at me with my big pile of filled boxes and said "Girl, you're on fire."

Tomorrow, I tackle audio books. And then I'm finished for the week. Which is good, because I'm off on Friday. Rawr.

I keep telling more people that I'm auditioning for That Idol Thing on Friday (go ahead, laugh), so that I can't back out without letting a whole lot of people down. My dad spent twenty minutes on the phone with me today, listing the songs I should sing (all completely out of my range, by the way) and convincing me that if I had to go to L.A. for a few weeks in pursuit of pop stardom, all my employers (for four different jobs) would surely understand.

He wants this so bad for me. I almost feel guilty for going and knowing full well that I won't make it past the first day. I just want to go, so that I can tell him I tried.

Comments? 1 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.