I’m enjoying reading this: http://www.slate.com/id/2126351?nav=wp and it is actually making me consider reading Faulkner. I think I tried to read As I Lay Dying once, many years ago, to no avail, and then I somehow got Faulkner and Steinbeck confused or combined in my head. I loved The Grapes of Wrath. I should read that again.
The temp job I have today is ridiculous. I’ve been here since ten (it’s now nearly two) and I’ve done maybe fifteen minutes of work. The whole morning was taken up with the man I’m working with futzing around in a clueless stupor. I feel bad for him, but it’s not like I can really help him find the files I need or anything. I don’t work here! I think I might actually ask not to be placed here again on Monday. It feels stupid AND rude to do that, but I’m just so uncomfortable with no work to do and so little guidance on the few things I’ve been able to figure out. I get the impression they’re behind schedule on some stuff, but if it’s all as simple as the things I’ve done, they really should have just buckled down and done it themselves instead of hiring an expensive temp.
Also, there’s no timesheet in the staffing company’s system for me today, which needs to be fixed so I can submit my hours before Monday afternoon so I can get paid for this ridiculousness.
The only good thing—well, there are two, hold on—is the company has good and multiple employee cafeterias. I had a rather nice chicken salad sandwich for lunch. It was cold and creamy and had fresh lettuce and tomato on it and was made to order and just really hit the spot. Also every graphics workstation has the same 23“ display I had at CDI. Ah, nostalgia.
Your English Skills:
. . . I wrote some quest auction item descriptions, and the descriptions were so fun and so good. It is the opportunity to do writing like this that keeps me on the game. Really.
This is the lookat on a sword called Hellfire Morningstar.
Blinding light melds with dark fire along an invisible shaft, the
immersion of good within evil and doom within salvation playing out before
your eyes. The first star of the morning shines with a pure light, its
intentions unknown. The fires of Hell beckon you with decadence and
ambition, their intentions clear. Which is the wiser choice?
This is the lookat on a belt called the feathers and skulls of ravens.
Raven feathers are woven into a band large enough to go around your waist,
and the skulls of several of their kind dangle from brass loops at the
front. Ossified beaks and empty sockets of bone clatter together with each
movement, but make no sound; only the memory of noise is there, like a
bird you cannot see until it has already flown away.
This is the lookat on the endless shortsword, a blatant Sandman reference.
Too many images to describe move along the edge of the deadly blade. The
sparkling stone of destiny, the white-gold glow of death, the black velvet
of dreams, the golden dust of destruction long gone, the blood-red heart
of desire, the silvered mirror of despair, and under them all the broken
laugh of delight turned to yearning delirium…
This is the lookat on a cloak called the Fires of the Furies.
The faces of anger, the expressions of strife, the tearing hands of
revenge, the blood of the wronged and the fury of the victors. Winged
harpies’ screeching cries, a filthy river of dust and grime, the blackened
wood of a long-dead fire, the ashen face of innocence lost. All is woven
together into a cloak of burning doubt, a robe of searing regret, the
armor we make for ourselves against that which we know to be true and