Nevergirl's

On days when my day is all spasmodic and squiggly, I shouldn’t be let out of the house even if it’s to buy jewelry gifts (though on second thought, you may be better off buying this online because some stores allow an amazing degree of customization! Think rabbit charms, baby shoes, a cabinet-shaped jewelry box—and no, I kid you not!) or dog food, if only for the sake of self, neighborhood, and country.

I tripped in the street thrice today, ran into a door twice, and hit my knee on a table leg more times than I care to remember. Then, on my way to the drugstore, I got splashed with slushwater by a passing tricycle or an overzealous puddlestomper—at least that’s what I assume happened because really, how else would you explain the dirty blothes on my dress? Unless a very low-flying, mud-bearing bird decided to defy the laws of physics just so it could shat on my dress.

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So, my sister passed the Nursing Boards recently, and now she’s back in school for language competency courses that require her to understand American English, Cockney, Irish, Aussie-speak, and just maybe Klingon, too. Since I have a relatively decent background at being interviewer (I did hiring and firing at the old think tank; I do the same for the present job), she figured I’d be the best person to practice her interview-answering skills on. Cut to an hour after when I’ve exhausted what little I know of interview questions and have decided to just go wing it:

“If you could be a fruit, what would you be?”

My sister gives me an incredulous look. I try to be helpful and say, “At this point, you should say you want to be a grape.”

“Because it’s cute?”

“Because it’s an antioxidant, you numbskull, and thus, useful to the rest of humanity.”

“Do you really want to be a grape?”

I thought about it for a bit. Be small, round, and purple? Not such a good idea, I decided, and so I dropped a more language-related question.

“Hoe koop ek goudstawe?”

“What does that even mean?”

“How do I buy gold bars?” I pronounce self-importantly, only to be whacked soundly in the head by a plump pillow.

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Things at the workfront are a little crazy at the moment. we’ve had to take on more people. Before I picked the 10, though, I had to screen about 50 applicants—and that’s way more stressful than I could ever describe here. I had to do the screening within a week, and get all 10 started right away. If we meet the deadline for this launch, I… I don’t know what I will do. I will wander the countryside. I swear to God, I will wander the countryside. I will just be so giddy and happy, and I will maybe try to go around the countryside all dazed and shit, and then go home all drunk with happy thoughts and a strong, strong feeling of accomplishment. Then, I’ll try to invent a tranquilizer-tipped dart gun or maybe Vitamins-fortified wine.

So, things at the workfront have been a little crazy, and I’ve taken to doing weird things to cope with the stress. For instance, I’ve taken to staring at switch plate covers online; arunno why exactly; it isn’t like they would suddenly prove crucial to my continued existence in this side of the hemisphere. Another useless coping mechanism: I just spent the last five minutes reading about a corndog fryer. Yes, a corndog fryer of all things. The copy includes the startling information that “the Hot Dog and Sausage Council says that any Hot Dog 7″ (18 cm) or longer can be called a foot long.” That is just not right. I am frothing with rage against the hot dog machine!

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I found my old diary recently, and I’ve taken to re-reading a few pages every now and then. “Leaving home leaves nothing behind,” I’d written years before; I was 15, and in Silliman University for the regional round of a writing contest.

I wonder now what I’d wanted to leave behind back then. It must have been something, that emotional baggage. I rarely want to run, and when I do, you can bet a month’s paycheck it’s over something really tormenting. “What did you want to leave behind?” I wanted to ask 15-year-old me.

I’ve done a bit of traveling the past few months, and every time I come home, I come home unchanged. I still run into doorways and doors. I still fall down stairs (no compost bins in this house, thank heavens, or I would’av ended up there too!). I still slip wherever there’s a surface, and bruising knees and shins so bad people ask who beat me up. I still forget things, especially keys and whatever it is I desperately need to find at the moment. Whatever it was in me that changed while I was away, it probably changes itself right back before I step through the door. Yep, leaving home leaves nothing behind, more so if you’re leaving because someone broke your heart. You can’t run from heartbreak; in fact, if you change zip codes, you’d only end up bringing it with you. What a very depressing thing to think about while stuck in the airport at 11:25am.