I Hate coming up with titles

Cool, my mom found her way onto my blog. Atleast posting, I mean. I've had a nice workday. It's always nice to work with Richard at PRO, he says such nice things about me. When I came in he said he was so excited we were working the whole evening together and he'd been excited for a month. We talk about writing books and going to art school and he bitches about the work politics at this branch. I laugh too loud and everyone in the library turns to look at me.

The airconditioning is apparently broken. I'm fine, it's a bit toasty. I always come with sweaters because the branches are usually chilly. Everyone else is pretty unhappy, but I kind of like it.

The sink here is designed in just such a way that it spluges water out when the faucet runs and I get doused. I never remember this. My bright pink shirt was covered in water spots and it actually changed tone for a little while, I was worried it was stained. It's kind of like a mood ring, I've discovered. It eventually goes back to a uniform color. It would be interesting to get rained on wearing this shirt.

I was doing more internship searches and decided I needed to find out what the frick Artbase is. I tapped out. I was more reflective this morning when I came in and my words would have been more thought provoking, but I decided not to write then. Hmmm. I have to make something for fathers day that is a surprise. Nothing comes to mind. Arg...

So I've been going back and forth in my mind between hating people and loving them. (I mean strangers that I serve at the desk.) The worst one, I probably shouldn't confess this, was an old man who was probably deaf came in and inarticulatly gestured and gurgled for a pad of paper, I thought he was going to write communications to me on that pad, and the horrible thought that ran through my head was "I hate people". But he just wanted to write the info from his book for himself. I did go on to check him out later and my feelings weren't nasty then, but congenial. I don't think he heard anything I said, like the meager 20 cent fine. I wasn't going to do anything about it.

I never named any of my stuffed animals when I was a child. I never named anything. For some reason that worries me. I did kiss everyone of my many stuffed animals goodnight, every night. No, I don't know where that came from. I keep thinking about finishing Middlemarch. I can't make up my mind, I stopped because I couldn't handle it anymore, I had picked it up again and came to the same conclusion again and finally put it on a shelf. That was a while ago. I have a feeling I can handle it now, but I doubt.

I love the automatic save feature for posts. Word documents should do that. So one of the jobs I'm interested in is managing an Artists papermaking mill. I have this vision in my mind of a huge, high ceiling, old white-washed brick factory with cement floors flecked with colorful paperpulp and large vats in organized patterns and just wandering around it like a happy little girl in a red collared shirt with black lines, sleeves rolled up to my elbows weather worn blue jeans, enjoying being so young in such a place.