Well I don't really want to leave a picture of testicles up as the signature post for too long. People might get the wrong idea about me.
This election in Massachusetts is the first time an election has had any real and direct bearing on my (and Jethro's) income. Insurance companies have been totally spooked by what that horrid bill in Congress represented. Insurance companies, sluggish even in good times, have become positively churlish about paying anything. If I told you how much we had in accounts receivable, you'd have the vapors.
So I am quite happy that Mr. Brown will vote against that nightmare of a bill in Congress. It's no long-term solution (insurance companies are almost as corrupt as the government) but maybe now we can get paid enough to keep afloat.
Enough of that. I'm trying to think of bloggable events, but everything has been pretty mundane lately.
Massage therapy classes are killing me, and I am desperately trying to write a resume, which is sucking in the extreme. Not only do I have to find a way to make my disjointed career seem coherent and somehow applicable to graphic design, I also have to design a resume. Graphic designers are not supposed to just hand in some MS Word template resume. They are supposed to add design elements to it, which is logical. Of course this is much easier said than done. Too much and you run the risk of looking disorganized and trying to pad a thin resume. Too little and you look like you have no imagination. Throw into it the fact that you are trying to design something for yourself, and suddenly everything becomes a Big Fucking Deal.
And I'm trying to stop swearing and start exercising regularly. It is uphill work. Sometimes I think I was born to a life of gluttonous hedonism. Fat people can fuck too if they have enough money. Er....excuse me...engage in debauched acts of coitus. Not that I have enough money.
And I hurt my arm. I've never had a more fucked up....er....excuse me....douched up appendage. I keep begging my chiropractor husband to fix it, but I keep forgetting to make an appointment and he doesn't like working when he gets home. I can't blame him, but it is the arm I use for hand jobs....er....excuse me....acts of coitus I engage in using my.....fuck it....hand jobs. I would think that would be some motivation. Pussy still works though, so I guess that's enough.
Anyway, that's what's going on here. Even when life is dull, it isn't.