Do I look like a fucking people person?

high finance

fucking bank of america.

when i had signed up as a customer, i had signed up for direct deposit. as a direct deposit customer, i do not get charged for bank fees for having a checking account. saving me a big $5.50 a month. so, imagine my surprise when i got my first statement to find that yes, i had been charged that lousy 5.50. i call them, and complain. first the person i spoke with said that the last deposit made into my account wasn’t direct deposited. i said oh yeah? what happened? some magical little fairy just decided to put monies in my account? then she hands me to the manager, some snobby bitch, who proceeded to tell me that it states in black and white that it doesn’t become a direct deposit account until money is direct deposited. i said, but you can’t have money direct deposited until you get the account and routing numbers! which means that the first deposit is going to be done by hand! hello! fucking morons.

then, today, i’m checking the on-line statements and it says that they charged me $10 dollars for insufficient funds — which I don’t have! fucking jesus christ on a pogo stick! there is money in the account — i’ve only written one check, which is far LESS then what is in the account. god, i hate calling them because they act like their are so superior to us common folks who make less than 6 figures. fucking morons. geez. now i have to go to the school bookstore and pay with my credit card — which is actually my debit card attached to my direct deposited account! grrr.

busy little bee
i’ve got a few things lined up on my plate:

  • tomorrow i’m being interviewed by wired for something i cannot discuss at this time. i actually leaked the story to several other reporters but since this person was the first one to get back to me, he has full rights to it. anyway, i will provide more information once the story leaks this week.
  • i had some complaints about the lisa chronicles. basically it came from the person who first initially wanted me to do this via email. he said that while my life is interesting enough to read about, he was bored with the old lisa. he wanted “more”. including videos, pictures, etc. i’m like? what the fuck here. my life to you is what choose to give you. anyway, i decided that the personal section about me needed a major lift, so i’ve been working on that this last week. it’s a time consuming — since it takes me awhile to get everything up and running. it might take me a few weeks to get it completed and uploaded. as usual, i’ll post when it’s completed. 🙂
  • school. always taking up time. i forewent the super bowl tonight to work on my website, which meant i’m waiting to the last minute to study. but, i’ll pull a 4.0 this semester. i know it 😉

presents
i’ve been thinking for awhile about giving back to those who have helped supported me since i’ve been doing the lisa chronicles. So i decided that the coolest thing to give would be t-shirts to all the subscribers of the list. T-shirts are cool — we all love them. So what better way to honor those who helped me then to give them something back?

Here is the deal:

  1. There is currently 15 people subscribed to the list. Once I have hit 25 (I might change this to 50) subscribers by February 28th, 1999, I will be sending out an announcement to the list on gathering info (mailing address and t-shirt size).
  2. If I don’t hit my mark by that said date, I’ll be sending out an email anyway to those subscribed to the list and requesting specific information. Any t-shirts left (I make 50 shirts, there are 10 left as only 40 people are subscribed), will be SOLD for the cost of the shirt plus shipping and handling.
  3. Recap: If you want a shirt, and you are on the list, you get one FREE. If you are not on the list, and want a shirt, you will have to PAY for it.

The shirts will be cool. I’ve already done the design. It’s just a matter of me buying the supplies and making them.

Some things to consider:

  • Going over the hit mark (25 or 50): At this point, I will do it on a first come first served basis. If I get more requests then what I’ve stipulated, I will work out a trade agreement or barter or something. I’m po’, so I can’t afford obviously to give shirts to everyone.
  • Concern over privacy: this is understandable. I run four mailing lists and I have never had the inclination to sell my subscribers to anyone. I hate spam just like anyone else. If you don’t want me to know that you are reading this (as I’m familiar at who is coming to the site by dns/ip number — not necessarily the person) then I guess you lose out 🙂

If I’m leaving anything out, please let me know. I’ll add more as I think about this.

This is obviously a blatant request to get more subscribers to the list as well as readership. But no one said i had morals or ethics! 😉

Now, don’t be sending me information on how you want a shirt and blah blah blah now. Wait till February 28th or subscribe to the damn list! 😉

Don’t bother me. I’m living happily ever after.

sell out

What if I’m three-dimensional and I have all these experiences,
and I want to include my anger in my vocabulary of emotions?
I don’t want to leave that out of my work, yet I insist
on not being reduced to it. ani difranco

not so long ago, i used to have all this rage.
anger at the world in which we live in — on how it is being treated — on how things are done. peoples stupidity, moronic defenses we have for a government, our perceptions of each other and how we relate. i was going to change the world one day — help those who were not as enlightened as i was.

and so i wrote those same experiences down. put them in journals, on the web, anywhere and everywhere. picking fights on IRC channels, email lists and in person. Getting people to see that life was not necessarily about black or white, it was a multitude prism of gray. i used to fucking CARE!

there was a pattern to my madness. sitting for hours in my bedroom — writing. showing emotion, no matter how poorly constructed it was. FEELING pain. happiness. sadness. joy. delirium. a myriad of emotions all bundled into my nice neat 6′ frame.

But I don’t feel anymore. I’ve become this homogenized version of the yuppie life style. Po’ but still — some version that needs a cell phone, a pager and having fucking health BENEFITS. I mean, my god. I’m planning this completely materialistic career to make fucking money. for what end? what means? To get myself out of debt? What for? It just does not make sense!

i loved living on the edge. having melodrama whipped up for me, pre-packaged in a pretty box with instructions. i loved feeling that i had a certain edge over other people. It is not possible they could feel what _i’m_ feeling nor could they begin to _understand_ what i’m understanding. it just was. god, i fucking miss it. Is this what sanity is all about? being this complete pseudo-Valium induced happiness? Neither happy nor sad? Get into a car accident? shrug it off. Friends son’s father gets killed by a bullet to the brain? big deal. Completely and utterly dead. cold. frigid. lack of human emotion. me and my fucking blue spot. patterns. complete and utter static life. no change. chop hair off, dye it — hope for new vive on life. spend hours readingother people’s pain to live vicariously through theirs. spark. lack of interest. People used to comment on how special I was.

Whine whine whine. Bitch bitch bitch. I realized the other day, with he popularity of doing on-line journalling — it was becoming virtually impossible with having _your own_ life. Why? simple. you read about so many other people’s experience that you can no longer differentiate between what _you_ did and what _they_ did.

it’s become almost ironic. i bitch, yell and scream to ex-lovers about their masking of emotion and feeling. how cold and unresponsive they were. and now, almost bitter sweetly, i can see how they felt on the receiving end. as stated before, both justin and danny comment on my lack of willingness to divulge anything pertinent.

The other night, Sherry called me. She was having men problems. To console her, out of my mouth came — “Do you really want to end up living with me in 30 years with 10 crotchety old cats? Get off your high horse girl and _talk_ to the damn man.” And it’s like “HELLO! LISA!! Clue for you!” numb. this is what it has become. this numbness. i don’t care if the world went down tomorrow — good riddance. i would think about suicide — but i’m too fucking lazy to do it. back in the day, when I did think about suicide, I would think to myself “I will show those evil bastards!” *evil cackle* and now, I only roll my eyes and light up a cigarette.

So while writing this, I’ve concluded I’ve sold out to the man. No more dynamic, hello static. I cannot imagine living this sort of lifestyle for the rest of my days. It seems inconceivable! Impossible!

c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon
give me a spark. make me still care
make me want to feel
rape me. beat me.
MAKE ME WRITE BAD CHECKS! (wait, you did. $158 for college books. but just barely.)

When I was younger, in order to get rid of the pain, I used to sew my fingers together with needle and thread. self-mutilation. pulling hair. biting nails. all sorts of crazy shit. when i got older, i used to stand in my room and throw anything breakable. after i went through the bric a brac, i started on the dishes my mother had in the kitchen. now my mothers new house (well new being operative word here) doesn’t have any bric a brac. Of course not — I broke it all.

when i got older, i started piercing my body. a nipple here. a tongue there. biting my lip till it bled. thinking of a thousand and one ways I could die. Plotting murders of anyone that had crossed my path.

I fear death. I fear dying. I cannot accept it’s a natural part of life. Something innate in me refuses to accept this. Books upon books on studies on death lying in my bedroom. I can’t even READ them. As if I was going to die tomorrow (I could…). When I travel to work, I fear an earthquake is going to throw me off the Bay Bridge and into the bay. I’ll die, trapped in my fucking car. brand new that is. 1998 Saturn. swimming pools. movie stars.

And I’m getting so fucking claustrophobic in elevators. The new renovations at work have me seething. All because I have to take the damn elevator down ONE flight. That’s all — one flight. And _every_ single time I step into that damn thing, I keep thinking I’m going to plummet to my death. Oh sure, what the fuck ever. I’m heading towards the _basement_. I think I’m going to leave Justin on the couch and sleep alone tonight.

Just me and Teddy.
And some improbable perky book that will make think I’m okay.

13.5 hours later
Per my style, if i start writing the chronicle, and it is after midnight, i date it for that day. meaning, if it is technically 12:01 am, Saturday January 30th, 1999; i date it as such. So, now you know.

Now i’m awake.

When i left us last night, I turned off all the lights, took my contacts out and got into bed. I left Justin on the couch. He eventually climbed in several hours later. I don’t remember that. But i remember waking up next to him. anything i had been feeling before i had hit the sheets was gone. except my whole lower abdomen area started to itch. i climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. i had started my period. self-induced depression has to be good for something.

i re-read what i wrote and it sounds so final. “I had started my period. he eventually climbed in several hours later.” strange. it doesn’t seem to flow like it usually does out of my head and into my fingers.

i think i’ll end this now and spell check everything and upload it. i’ve got studying to do.

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A hard-on doesn’t count as personal growth.

working it
I hardly talk about clothes (one of my favorite passions) in my chronicles. It seems a bit shallow or maybe a bit self-indulgent. However, something occurred yesterday that was humorous that I just have to share.

Yesterday (1.25.99), I was wearing a gray skirt, light pistachio colored shirt and black chunky shoes. I also was wearing my usual three necklaces (two chokers and a pendent that hung a bit above my cleavage. I also had on a dark green wool sweater jacket as it was fairly warm in SF yesterday.

Got the picture in your head? Good.

So I’m leaning up against the wall, waiting for the 10a class to exit so that I could hit my 11a class. A few girls walked by me, checking me out (women always check out what other women are wearing, no matter what). This black girl comes up to me and says:
her: Where did you get that skirt?
me: *thinking* Eddie Baur.
her: Girl, you’ve got it going ON! I like it.
me: thanks.
She then literally, snaps her fingers in z formation and left.

I was a bit amused and feeling a tad more confident. I get told, over and over again, by women, men (bi,gay and straight) that my self-confidence and clothing carries really well. I was told by one person that one of the only reasons he gravitated towards me at work (he’s bi) was because I was the only one who knew how to dress.

I’ve never really thought so, personally. My trend for clothing tends to stick to a few classics and whatever funky stuff I can find. People _want_ to go shopping with me. I’ve had several offers to go shopping in Chicago (when I lived in Michigan) and downtown San Fran since my early 20’s. I also had another friend who said that he would LOVE (he’s gay) to go shopping with me in Toronto, because he knew I would be so much fun. I would assume this is a good thing. I keep clothing for long periods of time, even if I can’t wear it, to motivate me to lose weight. I’ve got a few skirts right now I _used_ to wear to motivate me even more to drop the poundage. But that is neither here nor there.

I try and make it a habit of not matching my pieces. For instance, last week or so, I wore the same gray skirt with a brown polyester button down and a burgundy sweater. I got compliments up the ying-yang about it. People just love the way I dress. If I were to name favorite fabrics, it would be: polyester, rayon and cotton. a poly-blend is also pretty nice. One of these years, I should throw up the photo-album i have of me since childhood, but I haven’t seriously thought about it. I need to do a few more pics of me in the now, as hardly anyone outside immediate friends and co-workers has seen my short hair (which is now red — again). Another project for the future.

deferment
Since I have gone back to college, I can defer my student loans. However, I only pay $50 bucks a month for them. My roommate, who has both her undergrad and grad from Berkeley in Poly Sci, has had her loans kick in to the tune of $750 PER MONTH. Shite. That is about the price of some mortgages. However, she found a way around that.

She and I were talking last night, and she realized that if she took 6 credits this semester, not only would she not have to pay her student loans they would also be deferred for another 6 months AFTER the last class. But if she takes 6 credits a semester — lord knows how long before she has to kick the funds back to the loan agencies. She’s not working towards any other degree — well, her doctorate, but the classes she is taking doesn’t count for that. She’s taking “fun” classes. She and I both were thinking about taking Western African Dance at Laney college. I imitated some sort of fucked up version of my interpretation of African dance. It sent Justin into peals of laughter.

The cool thing about California community colleges is that credits are 12 bucks a credit hour. In Michigan, I was paying 50. Talk about savings. Cathleen figured that a 200 dollar investment _now_ ($72 for classes, the rest for books) would be far worth it now then to kill herself paying back the student loans.

I hereby claim myself perpetual student!