leticia: (Default)
Comments are screened, anonymous posts are allowed, IP logging is turned off.

I want to know: Am I a good RPer or not? This is only really a question, of course, for people that have really RPed with me - I don't include peripheral involvement in INL, 'cause my characters didn't get Plot there much. Examples of bad or good would be appreciated, if you don't mind.

(Please note; I am not asking for /reassurance/ here. I am suffering from a lack of /perspective/ and /proportion/ and looking for such.)
leticia: (monster)

In a way, it almost hurts worse when the prospective employer bothers to send me a rejection letter than when they just ignore me.

...If they just don't contact me, I can feel like, you know, there's hope, until it fades off slowly. The rejection letter means "Screw you. Five and a half years of college DON'T QUALIFY YOU FOR SQUAT."

If I could tell high school students one thing, it'd be "Screw college. Go get a god damn job. College just makes you overqualified for anything that'll hire you without years of experience. The only way to succeed is to go to college full time while you work full time so that you have experience and training both for the good jobs."

...And in the mean time, I'm jumping hoops to try to apply for another job. Whee. Bet this one's a non-responder.

ETA: NOt a chance in hell am I getting this one. There's other applicants, after all.
leticia: (angry)
I don't even know how to say this. I'm typing blind. My puppy... six months old, ALMOST, Rags... got hit by the neighbors car and killed.

It's not like we live on a road. We're off on a little dirt track. They shouldn't have been moving fast enough to kill him. Stupid arrogant bastards who sat there afterwards and said "sorry" in a smarmy little tone that meant "At least we won't have to pay vet bills. And you better hope that fucking dog of yours didn't damage our car."

And he died. He DIED.

I'm ok when our older pets die. They're old, they get sick, they die. It's part of life, it's natural, it's supposed to happen, and I love them and I'm sad and I miss them. But Rags was just a PUPPY. Not even six months old. Puppies aren't supposed to die. They're not supposed to get killed like that.

We don't even live near the road, so that our babies won't get killed and those bastards had to kill him anyhow. I hate them. I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HATE THEM.

Do they have a mood for this? I'm so torn up inside. I loved this puppy. He was adorable. He was cute. He was sweet and loving. He got under your feet and in your way and into trouble every way he could, but he was always so happy to see you because he loved you so much. He always came when you called because he loved you so much.

...He won't come. I'll call and call and call and he'll never come again. He'll just lie there and get cold. And Dad's digging a hole behind the house. Pet cemetary, you know. We've buried at least a dozen pets in my lifetime. I love them all and I still expect them to get old and die. If my beloved Shadow or Autumn Dawn died tomorrow, I'd cry. But Rags had so much... LIFE. So much activity. So much sheer unbounded cuteness. And he died so... wantonly.

It wasn't even like a predator got him, natural cycle. It's just so wanton, arbitrary, awful.

Ok, I should be fair. They love pets too. They didn't mean to hurt him. They were just being stupid and careless and they probably feel awful about it. They'd probably agree with my anger. I should be fair - they didn't mean to, they're not evil, just STUPID. But it hurts.

We've buried him now. It makes me so mad/sad/unhappy.


Jun. 6th, 2003 05:15 pm
leticia: (angry)
God, I'm never going to get a full time job.

The last application I sent out just came back - the postal service randomly decided that two fucking first class stamps aren't enough for a standard legal envelope with three fucking sheets of paper in it. They also canceled the stamps I did put on it, just to add insult to injury.

Now, it's a week after the job was posted and I haven't got a hope that they'd still consider my application.

I'm never going to get a full time job. There's no hope. There's absolutely no hope. The whole world is conspiring against me. There's no logic that they should have sent back that envelope. As far as I can tell, it's entirely a 1 stamp package, and I added another to be sure. I thought "I don't need to waste this thirty seven cents, but I WILL, because I want to be SURE."

I could cry. Wait, no, I am crying.

I'm barely paying my loans back with contracting work, I have no benefits, I have no money to do anything but barely exist. I'm in a depressed economy where there's no need for progammers, and I have no skills for non-college ed jobs. It's something in my field - which there are none - or unskilled labor.

Someone shoot me. Please. Or just loan me a gun.

I just can't do this. I desperately need a full time job and even when I think I've got a good shot at a position, life reminds me that I'm not SUPPOSED to succeed. Now they won't even get the fucking application.

No, don't look at me like that. I'll remail it tomorrow. I know they'll never give me the job this late, but I'll try, I have to. Of course, there's not a chance in hell of salvaging the stamps by resending it in the current envelope with "MORE POSTAGE NEEDED" written all over it, because that would look unprofessional, so I have to go buy more envelopes, too, and stamps. SHOOT ME.
leticia: (Default)
I started a very modest diet back on Wednesday or so, just cutting out lunch (cutting it down to a couple pieces of fruit, actually) and limiting myself to a single, if generous, serving at dinner, cutting back on butter and such on my food, you know, just little things. Also been doing a little modest workout, almost entirely upperbody because my legs are fine. So yesterday I was already moodswinging and today I've been so drastic I can barely breathe sometimes. Does anyone else get REALLY moodswingie when they try to diet? I mean, I haven't even COMPLETELY cut out the chocolate, just cut DOWN.


May. 13th, 2003 08:23 pm
leticia: (Default)
What sort of prick gets all whiny when you serve a meal with the wrong sized of serving implement?

My father.

Now, what sort of prick throws a fit, sulks, and slams doors when I point out that the reason we're using that spoon is that ALL the bigger spoons are dirty, because no one's done the dishes in three days (And I was the last person to do them?)

My father!

Wee. I swear, he can fix his own goddamned food.


leticia: (Default)

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