6/29 -- Not a Summer Fan.
Funky DC building

I really love this building. It's on 23rd Street right off the traffic circle. I'm not sure if it's an office building or if it's residential. The terrace outside (hard to see here) makes me think it's an apartment building, but while I was taking this picture I saw books lined up near windows in a manner that suggested offices.

But whatever. It's still really neat. I love the kooky proportions -- the different levels and floors, that little conelike roof right smack in the middle of everything, and the irregular shapes of some of the windows.

And I covet that terrace. You can't see it well in this shot, but there are lots of chairs and a couple of round tables set up near the railing. I wouldn't want to be out there now, mind you. With the relentless heat and humidity rising up from the June-scorched asphalt and the emissions of the nearby rush hour traffic, I'd feel like I was baking in a kiln.

But I envision just sitting out there on a cool, crisp November night, smelling burning firewood and feeling a little chilly but not cold enough to go back inside. I can see myself hanging out there and staring at the lights of DC. The Washington Monument. The Capitol dome. The red lights of planes coming into National Airport. (I absolutely refuse to call it Reagan Airport -- go get freaking Congress to cut my funding if you've got a problem with that.) Yes. That, I'd like.

Ahhh! Attack of the Killer Bush Waterfountain!I'm just engaging in idle self-torture right now, of course. We're a million miles away from cool, crisp, firewoody nights. It's full-blast summer outside. Asphalt that feels like it gives under your feet. Humidity that beads on your skin. And the smells -- sunscreens and failed deodorants in the Metro, tar and exhaust fumes outside, the metallic tang of sweat that people leave in their wake when they come back inside from lunch. I get home at night and I just want to get a butter knife and scrape the summer slick off myself. A mere shower doesn't feel like it rinses off all the funk.

Yes, I'm whining. Too bad. I had to listen to the winter haters bitching about the bitter cold when it was in the mid-40s and sunny out and we had a few little piss-poor sprinklings of snow. Now it's my turn. If summer just stayed in the low-to-mid 80s with low humidity, I wouldn't mind at all. But this 90s crap is just wrong.

I hate to take up an entry complaining about the weather, but there just isn't all that much else happening. My life seems to be in a holding pattern along with the humidity. Part of the fun of having the digital camera and finding photo opportunities is forcing myself to really look at the landscapes I've been passing through for years and see what's new, what's unusual, what might be interesting. And now I'm trying to rack my brain for things to write about, and I'm not coming up with much that's new, unusual, or otherwise interesting.

My health? Uneventful. I passed a recent checkup with my neurologist with the proverbial flying colors. No new MS developments. It's great. It's also scary. I wish I weren't the sort of person who habitually fretted over when the other shoe's going to drop. There's this ugly little voice in my head saying "You know, it's not going to be like this forever." I'm enjoying the peace and the relative health and the respite from all the tumult of 2000. Every night, I give myself another shot of Copaxone, which seems to be doing what it's supposed to do thus far. That's all I can really do.

My job? I've been at the Web position for a year now. And I'm in a situation that's the complete opposite of my previous Job from Hell -- the Web position has been dreadfully unchallenging as of late. I keep being trained in new and exotic programs and languages that I never get a chance to use. Project Titanic is just sort of churning along uneventfully. Cut, paste, copy, save, FTP. Cut, paste, copy, save, FTP. Forever and ever, Amen. I could have done this shit immediately after finishing "HTML for Dummies" back in 1997. Dear God, it's boring.

Don't get me wrong; I still like the people and I still wouldn't go back to my old job. I'd rather leave work stupefied with boredom than leave it in tears, hating myself. But it's still a drain. Still frustrating.

And really, that's about it.

trash. gross.

Oh boy. Have I mentioned lately how much I just love summer tourist season in DC?

Indulging my inner hit slut

(Clix here to see boobs and butts. And don't be afraid -- they aren't my boobs or my butt.)

The next entry.

Previously, in Insomniaville ...

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