[m4w] overachiever much
Jan. 8th, 2004 01:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cthulhiawho? me?
This entry is all about how much of our self-esteem is vested in our job.
Actually, it's all about wondering if you've become the man you want to marry, but, I am avoiding that for a number of reasons, including the possiblity of yet another droll reference to how I must be the man I wanted to marry, since I married myself already ha ha. Just... don't.
In spite of the trend of self-commitment/self-love ceremonies these days, I married myself because it may be the only wedding I ever get to have. I was indoctrinated enough into my culture to start planning my wedding shortly after I understood segregated bathrooms. Even when I sit there and So Not Envy friends' marriages (or divorces -- even those that go so amicably they have a break-up party) I will still see Burdicks wedding favors, or balloon hats, and get all misty eyed. It defies all reason, truly. I just need to get married a lot, or maybe become a wedding planner.
The part I really like to plan is the reception. Short ceremonies seem unreal, long ceremonies result in restless irreverence. The bride didn't mind that the non-communion folks were mocking it by solemnly offering each other cheezits in the pews, but you should've seen her priest.
That aside is mainly to duck the fact that, since I am atemp contract employee, I can't vest a lot of my self-esteem in my job. It does mean a lot to get any paycheque, although one with benefits would be better. Today I proudly enjoyed introducing my supervisor to the miracle of anchoring images in text, and various Quark Easter Eggs I found when looking for an online tutorial about anchoring. (Plenty of guides a la "remember that great trick in Quark? InDesign can do it too, kinda-sorta")
I knew about the Aliens, but "taste the rainbow" brings on new levels of anti-productivity.
::
For the record, I wasn't really going to arrange to have everyone I know who doesn't link to me from their LJ suffer horribly. I guess at OPN last night, my usual acid wit (indulging my inner "12-going on mid-life crisis" year old) was insufficiently downplayed by what I thought was clear joy of peppermint bark, hot cocoa, and the fancy marshmallows that melt really, really nicely. (But thanks for adding me. I'll make sure you have a seat on the spaceship.) Even![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
woodwardiocom took my ferris bueller's sister's deathray glare far more seriously than I meant it. (Once he did, I had to play it up for the sake of our audience.)
Must work on radiating bliss the way I seem to radiate bitter.
This entry is all about how much of our self-esteem is vested in our job.
Actually, it's all about wondering if you've become the man you want to marry, but, I am avoiding that for a number of reasons, including the possiblity of yet another droll reference to how I must be the man I wanted to marry, since I married myself already ha ha. Just... don't.
In spite of the trend of self-commitment/self-love ceremonies these days, I married myself because it may be the only wedding I ever get to have. I was indoctrinated enough into my culture to start planning my wedding shortly after I understood segregated bathrooms. Even when I sit there and So Not Envy friends' marriages (or divorces -- even those that go so amicably they have a break-up party) I will still see Burdicks wedding favors, or balloon hats, and get all misty eyed. It defies all reason, truly. I just need to get married a lot, or maybe become a wedding planner.
The part I really like to plan is the reception. Short ceremonies seem unreal, long ceremonies result in restless irreverence. The bride didn't mind that the non-communion folks were mocking it by solemnly offering each other cheezits in the pews, but you should've seen her priest.
That aside is mainly to duck the fact that, since I am a
I knew about the Aliens, but "taste the rainbow" brings on new levels of anti-productivity.
::
For the record, I wasn't really going to arrange to have everyone I know who doesn't link to me from their LJ suffer horribly. I guess at OPN last night, my usual acid wit (indulging my inner "12-going on mid-life crisis" year old) was insufficiently downplayed by what I thought was clear joy of peppermint bark, hot cocoa, and the fancy marshmallows that melt really, really nicely. (But thanks for adding me. I'll make sure you have a seat on the spaceship.) Even
woodwardiocom took my ferris bueller's sister's deathray glare far more seriously than I meant it. (Once he did, I had to play it up for the sake of our audience.) Must work on radiating bliss the way I seem to radiate bitter.
