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For some reason, I find myself fascinated with Octomom. It’s so unlike me to care about something that doesn’t affect me. I don’t care which celebrity got married, cheated on his girlfriend, or got pregnant because it’s none of my business and doesn’t affect me. That’s what makes my Octomom interest so hypocritical: whatever she does is none of my business and doesn’t affect me. And yet…I’m compelled.
I think I’m lured by the situation–it’s a circus of chaos. Where else is the media parked outside 24 hours a day? The cameras follow her for a reason–the woman is a total nut job. It seems like there’s Octomom news on a daily basis. But above all, I’m waiting for her inevitable crash. When the media goes away, she’s going to hafta find a way to raise 14 children on zero income (Her family has more parts than a basketball team. An NBA squad has 12 players; she has 14 kids. If Donald Sterling can barely afford to pay the Clippers: how is she going to feed her own flock?). I’m not sure what sorta satisfaction I’m looking for–I just know the moment it all comes crumbling down will bring me . . . . .
One of the downsides of returning to school is the forced socialization amongst classmates. Not that I hate my classmates–it’s the group work that drives me nuts. Getting three or four driven college students to agree on something when a grade is at stake takes the negotiation skills of Jessie Jackson, Jimmy Carter, and John McEnroe all rolled up into one.
Group work brings strange people together. There’s a gal I have in two of my classes–we’ll call her Nestle (’cause her real name reminds me of a Crunchbar). Even though we didn’t sit next to each other, Nestle and I have been randomly assigned to work together in groups for each class. The odds of that happening are probably as slim as finding non-Octomom coverage on television–but that’s not the point of this tale. Because we’re working on two separate projects together for two separate classes, I’ve gotten kinda friendly with Nestle over the past couple weeks. Nothing personal–just course work-friendly. I know nothing about Nestle the person. She could be a communistic, polka-listening, clown-fearing, cat-juggling member of the Nazi party for all I know…and it wouldn’t concern me the slightest. The only thing I need to know about . . . . .
Imagine going to the doctor with a broken leg. The first option is surgery. The second option is a cast. The third option is amputation. Which option would you choose?
My latest insurance battle went from bad to worse. It wasn’t enough for those bastards to make me suffer for three days without any medication, on top of that, those sleezeballs tried to pull a fast one. The pharmacist calls me up and tells me my prescription has been approved. But after getting home and taking the pills, I discover my prescription isn’t for what the doctor suggested last week. The insurance decided to swap out my doctor-prescribed medicine (approximate retail cost $150) for something else (exactly $83.99).
So for those keeping score at home, my doctor thinks the best medicine for me is Expensivcine. But since Expensivcine isn’t available as a generic, my insurance won’t cover it. I can’t afford paying $150 for the medicine, so my doctor suggested another medicine that is available as a generic; however, since it costs the insurance company $150, they won’t pay for it. Now I’m on a different medication–the third choice. How often in life do you opt for the third . . . . .
F@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ f@#$ .
I thought that would make me feel a little better but it does not.
My insurance tried to screwing me over (again) and I thought a good string of expletives would help me feel better. Unfortunately cursing is like bailing out GM–a lot of big words with little results. I can’t tell you how much I hate the insurance business–I must’ve written about it a dozen times now. Whenever I start talking about insurance at home, The Wife immediately tries to calm me in soothing voice because she knows I’m about to go off. That’s because insurance is a scam–a complete and total useless scam. You pay for services you never receive; you have to pay for the expensive stuff out of you pocket. It’s utterly useless. Either that or I have the world’s worst health insurance.
I’m on Expensivcine and my insurance won’t cover it. Well, they think they do–but in actuality, they don’t cover it. My insurance only covers generic medicine. If I opt to buy the brand-name version, I hafta buy it at full retail price until I reach $150. The insurance will . . . . .
Somewhere, somehow my brain died. It’s very hard for me to concentrate right now–which is a shame because concentrating is what I need to do.
The Wife has a theory: Man isn’t meant to be awake at seven in the morning. She believes no matter how early one goes to bed, seven is simply too early. “If I go to bed at 11 and wake up at seven, I feel like garbage. If I go to bed at three and wake up at nine, I’m fine,” she said. I always thought that sounded kinda silly. I’ll agree it’s harder to get out of bed when the weather is cold, but sleep is sleep. The human body can adjust and if you get to bed early enough on a consistent basis, seven in the morning is no big deal.
I say that fully admitting I had a terribly difficult time waking up at 6:45 when I went to high school–but things have changed since then. When I was a teenager, I needed ten hours of sleep a night–it’s what kids need to grow. As an adult, I really only need six and am perfectly fine with seven. If I was given . . . . .
Yesterday at Ikea I have a very uncomfortable incident in the bathroom. I walked in about five feet behind this other dude. There was no one else in the bathroom and it was just the two of us (sounds like the beginning of a gay romance novel). The restroom had three urinals up against the wall and the guy immediately walked to the one in the middle.
What’s that all about? By foolishly walking to the middle urinal, now I had no choice but to pee immediately next to him. If he picked the one on the right or the left, it would be fine because at least we would still have a buffer between us. But now I had no choice–I had to pee right next to him. Call me a homophobe if you want, I feel uncomfortable touching my junk when there’s a guy eight inches away from me touching his junk. In plain sight.
There’s an unwritten rule regarding urinals for all the ladies out there: Thou Shall Stand as Far Away as Possible to Another Man When Using the Urinal. It’s just good, common decency. The distance helps prevent splashing or peeking (accidental and intentional). Nobody . . . . .
I’ve come across many companies online that are hiring and the only way to apply is to create an account–a user name and password–with them and “login” to their site. And since most people use the same password for the majority of their accounts, applying for a job at Joe’s Widget Shack would give Joe’s site administrator access to your user name and password. Seems like a good opportunity for fraud.
I wonder how many con artists and identity thieves prey on the unemployed. People who look for jobs online are desperate. Users would be more than happy to disclose Social Security numbers because it “feels” like a normal part of the application process. It’s probably pretty easy for criminals: set up a fake job opening and–BAM!–you got some sucker’s SSN, home address, and employment history. Seems like they’re be a lot of that–especially with the amount of time spent by lowlifes trying to hack into worthless MySpace accounts. Then again, would it really be worth it? Criminals steal identities for profit’s sake. If someone is unemployed, how much money could they have?
Jay Leno is moving to prime time television for NBC and I find it to be a . . . . .
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