AAAAARGH.
So I have a project due tomorrow in the payroll course I’m taking. Basically entering and analyzing a bunch of transactions. Each building on the last. Standard stuff. Right…
In the past I’ve had a problem with procrastination. Like, this is the kind of assignment I would try to do all at once, the night before. But NOT this time! I was sooo good this time! The night before the deadline, and I only have a little bit to go. For once I’m relatively stress free.
BUT.
For some reason one of the files didn’t save right. So there’s a big chuck of data missing from the final file.I DID that part—the separate, backup file is okay.
BUT. Apparently the software we’re using for the course is THE BIGGEST PIECE OF CRAP EVER. It will NOT allow me to just go in and re-enter the backed up stuff and backdate it. So the ONLY WAY to correct it is to GO BACK AND DO FIVE PAGES OF CALCULATIONS OVER AGAIN.
So after all my hard work, I have to do THE ENTIRE THING IN ONE NIGHT ANYWAY. Which sucks enough, but sucks double since I’ve ALREADY DONE IT ONCE!
I am so pissed right now it’s beyond belief.
I don’t know why I even bother with school. It never works out like it’s supposed to. EVER.
GAAAAAAAHHHH!!! ***primal screaming***
“Wake up, wake up…”
I have a Hilary Duff song running endlessly through my brain right now. Please, someone, shoot me.
Boxes
It’s been how long now since the move? Three, four months? And how many boxes are still piled up in the garage. And you never know what you’re going to find when you finally open one…
Pictures. One of the many, many summers spent at camp. You’re all gathered together on the lodge porch, a campfire burning in front of you, and no doubt you’re all talking about how we’re you’re going to be friends for the rest of your lives. And now, flipping through the stack of photos, you can’t for the life of you remember which summer that was, or who most of those kids are.
Clothing. Did you really used to wear that? All the time?
Books. So many books. Picture books that your dad used to read to you every night. These you remember. In rather disturbing amounts of detail. You page through each one as you put it on the shelf, and think about Dad reading them to you, and how books are still what you and he have in common. Not much else, these days. But you’ll always have words. It’s all his fault you have so many boxes of books. And you start to miss being little, and being read to.
More clothing. You can’t believe you used to think that was in fashion, or that it ever fit. *Sigh.*
A high school yearbook. More pictures of people you never thought you’d ever leave. The pages are full of signatures — most of them you remember, but there are a few you don’t, and you have to page through the book to put a face with the name. They write good wishes. And promises. I won’t forget you. I’ll keep in touch. How many ever did?
-One person wrote “Remember me!” Of course, that was the one person you won’t ever forget. The one who reached out to you when you most needed it, and changed your life, in his own small way. And you loved him. And he’s the one who asks you to remember him. As if you wouldn’t.
You wonder if he remembers you.
-The date on the yearbook is approaching ten years ago. Which does not seem possible.
Under the yearbook is a diary. It’s full of poetry that you used to think was brilliant, but now makes you cringe. And stories about random goings-on at the time, full of an angst that somehow you don’t remember feeling but at the same time can’t see that you’ve ever gotten rid of. Some pages are rants about school and your job and how you don’t have a frickin’ clue what you should be doing with your life. Funny how some things never change.
And there’s still another stack of boxes waiting.
Prologue
I recently decided to start blogging again. Seems lately I’ve been dusting off a lot of my old pursuits that I haven’t been pursuing. Writing is one. It’s been a long while.
I planned to ressurect my old blog, “Wandering Aimlessly.” Because even though I’m married and “settled down” now, I still feel that aimlessness, that wondering what’s next. But then I found a better title.
The word “Prologue” leaped off the screen while I was surfing. And it fit. The sensation of wandering aimlessly is a feeling that whatever “this” is I’m doing is a prelude, a prologue, to something else. What that something else might be, I haven’t a clue. I never have and probably never will. But I’m sure there’s a next chapter ahead somewhere.
So this, then, is the prologue to… what? I don’t know. But I’m sure the aimless feeling will still be there.
