It would seem like that, but I was having fun this morning, in spite of life's constant little disappointments. Brought in a stack of choice Ewan mags to scan for the never quite right pages in the still wee hours on the far superior work scanner but it's not working today. Poopy. Fortunately stuck inside one of the mags was the latest cd of things, wonderful things (as Howard Carter was wont to exclaim at the drop of a hat) from a dear friend. So, in spite of discovering the cd drive on the new EvilWorkPC is complete crap - it hangs every other minute or so - I perservered to enjoy songvids from Oz, Farscape, Smallville and Andromeda. Then Drew sent me an url for a file trading site. So all morning I've been dabbling in tv shows that don't even screen here, and probably never will.
So I rang up Telstra, and lo and behold my street is broadband enabled. Fancy that. But I need mother's permission to get it, as the account is in her name. So I decide to ask the old witch anyway - of course she said no. You young people today, you can't have everything, it's about time you learnt to go without. Yeah, right, so I'll have nothing to swap or talk about with my friends (as my current dial up connection manages the grand speed of 0.01 kbs which is why I have so much problem with my pages), and it'd be much cheaper than swapping tapes from overseas, just the postage alone. No. It's not fair. Did I ever ask for or get a life of my own, a man, children, a house of my own, a job I could stomach? Do I spend all my money on booze, cigarettes, drugs or the pokies? Have I ever been out at all hours, running with a wild pack? No, I've been Little Miss Cinders all my life, working and studying hard day and night and I just wanted a better net connection because it's my only link with the outside world, my pages the only things I ever get respect for. She knows this, so no. Do I even ask for a kitchen with appliances more modern than the 1920s? I mean, no dishwasher, no washing machine, no vacuum cleaner. I have to do everything by hand, because she prefers it that way. It's so hard and time consuming. The house is a mess because I get home some days from work just too tired to clean it, and it's too dark to see to scrub down things - half the light fittings she's broken now.
All I wanted to do was look at some lame tv shows and now I'm feeling like some locked away hero in an Alexander Dumas novel. Pout. Whimper. Festering resentment.
Why don't I move out? Because everytime I do the bitch takes to her bed - the last time I'd just spent a week pulling 16 hour days at work when she phoned up everyone to tell them she was taking an ambulance to hospital because I wasn't looking after her to her satisfaction and didn't I get taken aside for a good talking to afterwards by all and sundrey. She's already driven my Dad to suicide. Somebody save me, please.
I wanted to be more positive, but I've got some hard work to do today, the templates they've been waffling about for a year, they want tomorrow! I'll be lucking to get home in time to watch Jack & Daniel tonight. Damn, and I'd bought a nasty cheap lambrusco yesterday. Yes, I know, how common, but my local bottle shop considers a Chilean Merlot to be fancy pants enough to require rummaging about in the back. I'm just lucky they stock any wine at all. Not that it looks like I'll have any time to enjoy myself at all. So much for any fic musing plans I had.
Heh, sometimes I want to bury my Bro in the backyard, but sometimes I love him dearly. Just made a clandestine deal, I order him books off the net, he picks me up some cds at Borders (because the nearest Borders is an hour and a half away at least by bus).