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Wednesday, Jun. 21, 2006 - 9:31 p.m.

I have come to figure out about myself in the last week, that perhaps what I detest most in life are people who do not have questioning minds. People who accept at face value whatever "facts" are thrown at them without wondering why or how. And the world is FULL of them. ::sigh::

I am happy to say I am no longer working on Iraqi invasion propaganda. Now, I'm working on Grenada invasion propaganda. But I find that slightly more palatable, being safely located, as it were, 23 years in the past. It's still whitewashed crap, but at least I don't feel like I'm helping perpetuate current crimes against humanity. I will still be really happy to leave this and head off to France, though. If I have to type one more ludicrously self-aggrandizing statement+ like how, when you finish Ranger training, "You are a warrior monk," I may have to shoot somebody while screaming "Who's the monk *now*, beyotch?" at them, and that's just a side of me none of us really needs to see. (I did actually yell, "Oh, give me a BREAK" at my television, though.) And I really never EVER want to do transcription again. Of any kind.

Speaking of France, my time here is gettin' short, and frankly, I'm freaking out. There are still a million things to do, and I have like exactly 21 days to get them done, and it's so not going well. I had everything all blocked out, this on this day, this on another, and then this week went to hell in a handbasket and threw the whole thing into chaos, and my stress level amped up to about the Nth degree. Seriously, it will be such a relief to touch down on French soil and realize that for better or worse, I am there for the next 3 months, and anything I left undone will just have to stay undone for the next 91 days. (I realize I gain a day flying back, but get real; that 90th day is a total bust, timewise.)

That being said, my newest terror is that I will be turned away at the gate to French customs, because I am there exactly 90 days from July 13 to October 9, and that they really only let you stay 89 days, or that - despite having counted the days over and over - I am somehow miscounted, and I am actually there 91 days, which is one day more than 90, thus necessitating a long-stay visa, which I do not have, and I will be summarily dispatched on the next plane back to America, tout suite, forthwith, and so on. Seriously, this thought keeps me up nights. Though I just this very moment realized that if that happens, they will probably just send me back to London, and I can wait a day and catch the ferry, so fuck it, I don't care. You hear that, you snooty french bureaucrats? Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries - HA! (just kidding; please don't kick me out. seriously. i was just goofing. your mother is lovely and I'm sure your father does not at all smell of anything having to do with anything unpleasant, berries or otherwise. les fleurs sont tres belles. vive le france. bygones.)

I have to do my taxes. We all know how well I handle taxes and the preparation thereof. I was going to do them this weekend, and now I have to work all weekend, because the work schedule got jacked. Dude. Then there's the packing, and British Airways' ridiculous carry-on luggage allowances. Seriously, 13 pounds is just outrageous. What about my purse? If I carry a large purse - all right, book bag - does that count as a carry-on bag? If not, I can stick my laptop in that and all is well. If so, then I'm kinda screwed, because the damn laptop weighs 6 pounds, which is almost half of my carry-on bag allowance, and dude, I so can't risk having my clothes - especially my underwear - not arrive in France. I can not afford 90 days' worth of French clothing, people; those prices are outrageous. And everything I will be packing in my checked bag - the one I am not allowed to lock, so the big hairy baggage handlers can paw thru it at will, which they clearly do, seeing as my underwear did not walk off by itself - is all the stuff that won't fit until I lose weight after a month of stairs. And my colder weather gear. I can't wear cold weather clothing in a country with no air conditioning at the height of summer. Dude. Neither do I want to be stuck wearing lightweight cotton during European fall and the rainy season. So I really need my baggage to all make it to France with me, and in a timely, unpawed-thru manner. Oh god. I hate change. Why, oh why, did I think this was a good idea? Whatever possessed me to make this trip? Three months? Seriously, what the hell was I thinking? I have to get on an airplane. And I have to fly from Los Angeles to London. LA to London, people. From America to Britain, quite possibly the two most hated countries in the world at this time, and from one major metropolis to the next, both of them, I am utterly sure, terrorist targets. Fuck. Fuckety fuck fuck fuck. I am getting on a plane bearing a British name, flying from one of the most trafficked airports in the entire world - with quite possibly the worst security of any airport ever built in the entire history of non-secured airports - to another highly trafficked airport in yet another country targeted by extremists with access to unstable chemicals and things that go boom, and I am doing it at the height of tourist season, just after my government has probably managed to piss off every single anti-American extremist on the planet by parading that goddamned picture of Zarqawi thru every single news cycle for an entire week and a half. Seriously, WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING???

I need to lie down. My stomach hurts.

Peace out,
Katie

+ I actually just had to type this out: "The scroll, being in a Ranger unit, that�s a way of life. Okay? You are a warrior monk. And you know, you are trained to the Nth degree, you�re indoctrinated; you know, you are inculcated with this warrior essence." There was more, but it's just too annoyingly packed with self-aggrandizing bullshit to repeat, frankly. And the cheeser I'm transcribing is one of those asses who constantly pauses to say "Okay?" and make sure you're paying attention. I fucking can't stand that habit. My father did that constantly, and then he would fucking quiz you to make SURE you were paying attention. It punches every button I've got like a bratty 4th grader on an elevator.

copyright 2002 - 2005 Katie Doyle; all rights reserved
Don't even think it, punk.






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Yesterday's News - Next Stop

In which Katie shares sad news - Wednesday, Apr. 01, 2015
In which Katie returns after a very long absence - Monday, Jun. 25, 2012
In which Katie pokes her head in and brushes some of the cobwebs away - Thursday, May. 06, 2010
In which Katie asks you to write your congressman again. - Monday, Jun. 02, 2008
In which Katie asks you to please click the link and send the message to protect the rights of artists - Wednesday, May. 21, 2008

 

 

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