The Way Things Are






Iím beet.
2006-05-05, 2:24 p.m.

UPDATE ON MY LYMPHAPIC SYSTEM: full of white blood cells. Perhaps fighting off the infection of stress and anxiety and lack of trust I am rife with these days. RIFE. Iím having trouble turning my head, but no headache, no fever, no other symptoms. I feel pretty good, in fact, except it feels like Iím storing marbles under my tongue.

Doesnít lymphatic sound like it would make a really cool adverb? NO it most certainly DOES NOT!, she insisted lymphatically.


IN OTHER NEWS, Iím really tired of thinking, talking, writing, or obsessing over it. You know. Or thinking and talking, or writing and obsessing, or talking, writing and obsessing. So letís not go there today, shall we?


Here are the things I CAN control:

Ö (jack shit)


The Da Wenchy Code LIVES!

Yesterday, I had to write a very snippy responsorial letter to a large governmental organization (did you know that one of my old co-workerís husband called me a ďsnippy little bitchĒ one time because of my attitude toward him on the telephone? That was awesome) and I very much wanted to not just answer their question, but to give them my opinion about their impotent organization getting ready to collapse under its own weight, staffed with folks with ego rather than brain filling up their heads.

Please allow me to clarify: I did not have to write a SNIPPY letter; I simply had to write a letter of response. I chose to make it snippy. I canít help it. Iím a snippy little bitch.*

What I really, REALLY wanted to do was to tell them, quite simply, ďBite me.Ē

So I did. I coded those words into my letter to the large governmental organization, in a way that nobody would ever be able to tell unless they knew what they were looking for, and had the electronic version of the letter. Printed out, you canít really see it.

Would you like to know what I did? Of course you would, because you are going to want to do this, too. Itís passive-aggression at its very finest.

All I did was go through the letter, and in random order, pick out the letters b-i-t-e-m-e in the body of the letter, which was written in a 12-point font, and change those letters to 11 points. Random order, no further coding, no tricky counting or numbers. Bwuh. Numbers. The message ďbite meĒ is short and simple enough that if you did find those 6 magical letters, you could arrange them and figure it out quite easily.

Once printed out, the difference in letter size is almost imperceptible. If you have the electronic document, you can scroll your cursor through and find the 11-point letters. The recipient of my letter will never get the electronic version unless one YOU fuckers rat me out, hack into my hard drive, and send it to them.

But it was fun, and I feel better for it. I said what I wanted to say, and I donít have to suffer any consequences, and isnít that really what itís all about?

Please know that there is no coded message in todayís journal entry because I would have to learn some HTML in order to change font size, and I donít have room in my brain for that. Unless I get my second brain on the job. YEAH!

Well, Iím beet, misspelling in-fucking-tended, so thatís all I gots for you today. YOUíRE WELCOME.

*Except this. I have not only been called a snippy little bitch, but I had a car load of not-white teenagers holler at me at a stoplight once, and when I didnít respond, they start spitting toward my car, calling me a white bitch. Hey, you! White bitch! PTOOOO!

I have a very good friend who to this very day, 20-someodd years later, cannot say my name without adding ďWhite bitch! PTOOOO!Ē

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