Salvial_Ten's journal

So, I'm sitting here at my desk waiting for raid invites to go out to Karazhan and I realized that I have a lot of downtime in what I do while I have downtime in teh real world. This might actually constitute as a problem. But anyway, I know there are European WoWers on the sight but what about US? Who are you and what server are you on?

You know, I've never been particularly good at keeping a journal. Not even when I was a little girl and it was the cool thing to do. However, I logged in here today for the first time in a long, long while and discovered that I've kept a pretty accurate one here. And god, I see for a while there I was kind of a mopey twat.

Heh, well anyway, I suppose if I've got any sort of point I need to get to it now. I logged in and started reading over the stuff I missed in my absense and I started thinking about all the conversations I've been a part of here and even just the ones I've read and I have to say thank you, NAO. You've been good to me, and I'm glad someone pointed me in your direction way back when because I can honestly say that I've spent a rather large part of my time here and being part of the community.

That is all. :-)

So, I haven't been around much at all. There are many reasons for it, but for the most part it's been World of Warcraft. Heh, I lost my life a couple of a couple of months but thats okay. The other reason I haven't been around much is the Triumvarate I've managed to become a part of. It isn't every day that one ends up with friends nicknamed "Lord Brutal" and "Cancer Girl". There isn't going to be much of meaning to this post but I figured I'd post it anyway.

For the record I still work at that shitty store and I came a hairs breath away from flunking out of university last semester. I'm also going to make an attempt at being around here more.

I really miss you guys.

--Jami "Buddha"

Now, I knwo the title of this is a little emo sounding but that isn't the intent. This is a fact, I sometimes suck harder than a Tahitian Crack Whore.

I was at work night before last and we were busy as fuck. I was stuck on register seven. The shitty thing about this register is that it's the first one on the grocery side of our Wal-Mart that isn't a twenty items or less line. This means that every unobservant dumb fuck lines up at it like there isn't another open register in the whole damn store.

I was stuck on the thing for over an hour past the time I was schedualed to go on my break and was feeling a little pissed off. My friend Dj who was sent up at the start of a code three (this means that there are too many people lined up at the checkouts and other associates in the store that know how to use a register are hauled in from their departments to come help) and well, I didn't know it but her lunch was workin' on being fairly late too.

She came up behind me and I thought she was about to start whining about being forced into responding to a code three by Manager Mike (nevermind that her department manager said she didn't want her responding to them because she's the only fucking associate in the toy department). So I turned to her and like a cunt told her, "Whatever you're about to bitch about, I don't want to hear about it. I've been on this register for three hours so whatever it is, it's not as bad."

Turns out all she wanted to mention was that she saw some teenaged girl dressed in Naruto gear and that it was utterly adorible. So, there you have it. I was being a total and utter cunt, and I deserved the talkin' too she doled out when I got back from that break.

I really fucking suck sometimes.

--Jami

Lately, I've been thinking about my life quite a bit. Mainly because I've been in somewhat of a state of exasperation and irritance at my job and having a lot of things to save up for/buy and having a low income to not really provide enough of what I need to achieve my goals.

However, I have to take a look at where I am in life to gain some perspective. Like, right now I'm sitting in a comfortable chair in a coffee shop typing this on the laptop that my financial aid refund got me (I've noticed for months now that I really needed a new computer, and with how mobile I am now, a laptop was the best way to go), contemplating the cleanliness of my apartment, my GPA, and the fact that I've got a tight circle of friends. What do I really have to complain about?

My job? No, that's not even worth the effort of getting angry. It provides a pay check and soon enough I'll be equiped with skills that will make me more marketable to other fields of work beyond retail. And were that I to lose this one, I could find another job fairly easily. Baring procrastination that is.

Having to pay for a lot of shit? Eh, comes with the department of independant living and going to college. Rent isn't that big of a deal, I have no issues at all making that. I owe my roomate for covering shit her ex-flatmate wanted me to pay, but I can pay her off a little at a time and still be able to put up money for the trip I'm planning to take this summer. So, I won't have a lot of money to blow on worthless shit. This is a good thing in the long run.

My car isn't my first choice in vehicles but the fact of the matter is that it runs. It looks fairly nice, and it is 100% paid for. Besides, with where I now live, a lot of the driving in my life has been completely cut out. Work is the only place I really have to drive to, or the coffee shop, but that isn't so far away as to be taxing on my fuel economy. If it weren't for my tendancy to be here till two or three in the morning I'd probably just walk here.

So there, in a nut shell, is why life is sweet right now. I project that life is gonna stay pretty sweet until at least next year when the lease is up, in which case, I might look for another place with utilities included, and move on over with the roomie. Then again, maybe I'll be so set in the pad I'm in now that leaving would seem ludicrous. One way or another it doesn't matter yet. I've still got till Next August to worry about it.

--Jami

I got bored, I started writing. So um, with no further ado, something a made up in the wee hours of the morning that people I've shown it to seem to enjoy.

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There was so much wine. Really. Red. Blush. White. You name it. Even the expensive sparkling variety…how could I not have drank it? But well, that isn’t the point of this tail. I remember the wine. I remember it more than anything. Flowing freely and the gayety it inspired and the smile on my mothers face as father spun her around and around. I remember my first. I had caught a bottle as it rolled from the table and grandfather looked at me and said, “Vee, it’s yours. Enjoy it!” So I did. There was not but an eighth of it left but I was ten and it was wonderful and intoxicating.

Second to the wine I remember the music. There was so very much of it. It was utterly impossible to keep up with who played what and who it was that even knew the proper way to coax music from strings and horns and drums. No body could read sheet music or really much of anything else. I think they like to call it functional illiteracy now. My older brother used to be a deity as he sat before the piano, playing and laughing and drinking his wine. Mother was always so much more proud of him than me. I couldn’t play an instrument to save my life, let alone earn coin. But I could sing. And we needed voices here.

But with the music and the wine came travel and it is what I truly loved. The wine was my addiction and the music was my affliction but the road was my home, my lover, my very reason to breathe. There were many roads to go down. I preferred the ones that were splitting and barely stripped. That lead to little town so far away that nothing seemed to exist outside of it. Those pocket universes were what inspired my singing to my divine brother’s playing. It mattered not that his song and my tune were foreign to one another, impromptu. The crowds we sang and played and danced for could never get enough of it.

So then it all fell apart. They started to shun our kind across Europe and then America. Its like in the great war of culture and politics that there was not an inch of room for our minority. This had happened before though, back when we were all just Gypsies and again as Romanians and now? Well, I think they call us hobos, vagrants, and any number of foul things. The rich get to be called the circus and people pay to see them in their sequins and high topped tents. Our family split ways after long nights of bitter arguments and the music and wine stopped. My brother and I left together. My parents took our younger siblings—twins. And the cousins and grand parents all took off to who knows where.

The wine and music kept going for Jeremy and I. But he died. It wasn’t the wine, it wasn’t the music or the seedy bars that we put our act on for. He’d caught a cold. It turned into pneumonia. His lungs turned into water. He died coughing and burning with fever in my arms, in a shitty bathroom in a shitty truck stop in a shitty town in a shitty state in a shitty country. He died in shit. I was his lover, his friend, his cohort. He was my lover, my inspiration, and the music to songs that no one remembered. The world is a worse place without him.

I travel on. Or I did. My last stop is this city on a river at the edge of a gulf and its recovering from the wrath of nature. I wasn’t here then, I was a little too far north, in a city that those people were fleeing too. We’d been heading for that Crescent. I’d like to believe that nature avenged my brother’s death; though why on that poor place I don’t know. I don’t care either. I sing in lounges now. To whatever music they afford me. Karaoke has put food in my belly on more than one night. Selling my other wares has done it more nights than that. Though, I have to say that there is still wine. I might as well say that it is my blood now.

I’m slowly poisoning myself with my fondest memory. A poet’s death I’ve been told is slow and consuming. But I, am not a poet. I’ve tried to be and the words flow like bile from an infected wound. Certainly not beautiful, and certainly not worthy of a poet’s death. I wonder how my family fairs. I wonder what started the fighting. Probably money. There has never been much of that.

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--Jami