our internet isn't working unless you sit in a particular spot on carla's bed. my father is bellowing into the phone. the phone is on speaker phone but my father is nonetheless pressing it to his ear. when he was talking to a voice recognition machine, he couldn't hold back the passion in his voice. it's touching to hear a suffering man enunciating so clearly.

now he is raving to a real person with the quavering, articulate power of the righteous and wronged about customer service and demanding unreasonable assurances from a woman so patient that it's hard to believe she's listening to anything he's saying. now he is ending the phone call and demanding to know her name. Rashmad Sanad. I feel like Rashma has some small revenge in having my father, North American that he is, have to ask her to spell it out.

i walked around with dad for a while, past a long block of 4 or 5 silent fire trucks with their lights whirling, talking occasionally and feeling like my dad is someone i'm extremely close to. i'm going to go to bed now but i really dread tomorrow. i really dread putting on that t shirt and becoming a force of irritation and guilt in their lives. i should probably suck it up because it's a great cause, but dear god what an unpleasant thing to have to do. fucking catskills and fucking gas drilling, it's all so personal.

good night

oh and those two idiot girls i worked with today, Y and S, two best friends from UMich, S is from fucking alaska, were the most shamelessly idiotic people i have ever met in my life. i have rarely heard people talk about shit so useless at such length and with such drumming, self-satisfied repetition. the alaskan repeated her shtick about "actively dying" in her unsuccessful canvassing and "swimming" (it was a humid day and this was her creative way of describing it). They both went on about some indescribably dumb shit about how they would "permanently attach" themselves to lady gaga and ke$ha and some other public figures who excite them. their inanity was truly tireless.