Rank strangers to me

Everybody I met seemed to be a rank stranger
No mother nor dad, not a friend did I see
They knew not my name and I knew not their faces
I found they were all rank strangers to me

  One week of internship down, seven to go. So far it's strange people, strange town, and basement living part deux. Someone remind me again why I do these things. It's not as if you can cure loneliness and depression with immersion therapy. The first few days were filled with pokerfacing at work and tears and Santogold after hours, but things seem to have stabilized somewhat. I started on a giant 3D puzzle to help ward off ennui but the sight of all my bowls now filled with hundreds of foam puzzle pieces seemed like an apt metaphor for my life and may induce further depression. We'll see. Et tu, Rothenburg?

   Work is about as exciting as one can expect from a collections management position ("How can I best describe this box of moldy blankets? Does the difference between 'twill' and 'plain weave' really matter so much when I'm worried about finding mummified mice in the folds?"). This I can deal with, if only for the marginal pay and learning of Photoshop and PastPerfect wizardry. But the people. The people. Check your snark at the door because this is a humor and color-free zone. This became immediately apparent before I could embarrass myself or offend anyone, TG, but it is strange and numbing to have to consciously deaden your personality forty hours a week. Is this normal? Have I been spoiled by my last job, which was almost completely filled with alternate versions of myself whom I could speak with about mellification, Macklemore, and our mutual dream of suing bosses for harassment with no fear of judgment and an assurance of immediate understanding? Seems so.

  Let's just sum up the week with a few key points:

• On the drive up, I passed a giant SUV with tinted windows and a "Skinhead Army" bumper sticker. This is a step below even the usual CSA crap. I have no words, other than... where does one even purchase Nazi car decals?
• The people at work never laugh. At anything. Except maybe me, behind my back. See next point.
• I stepped in a termite trap the first day and got seriously stuck. There was a witness. After wrenching it off, I figured just walking it off down the hall would decrease the stickiness. Oh no. It was like I'd just crawled out of a bog, or suddenly developed elephantitis of the right foot. Walking it off was not an option. Unfortunately, neither was washing it off since the glue seemed to be waterproof. Finally gave up and plastered over the sticky spot with some paper towel. Went about day feeling like a fool.
• The entire floor in museum storage where I work is made of a loose metal grill situation you can see completely through to the floor some twenty feet below. I'm not afraid of heights, but I am afraid of situations where I am high up and can see down to just how little I am supported (see also: deep water). Bonus: anyone walking below can see up my dress.
• Speaking of dresses (which I brought almost exclusively for work clothes, 'cause ain't nobody got time to be matching separates), all of mine seem to be made for an entirely different grade of woman and thus gap open at the top and show everyone my underwear. To remedy this, I put my college degree to work and came up with the extremely smart and mature solution of taping my dresses closed. Texted EF about the sitch. She replied with, "No judgment -- I've used staples before." Oh my God we are all pretending here.
• My boss is a straight-laced Canadian from PEI with red hair. I made an Anne of Green Gables joke. No one laughed.     

  Had to come home this weekend to retrieve Social Security card, with the secondary goal of salvaging what's left of my sanity. This last one was pretty much a disappointment, as the constant bickering about money, calories, and moving furniture that seems to be the soundtrack of life in this house is driving me closer to the edge. It's a four hour drive plus a time change, so I'll have to leave in a few hours to get home in time to get some sleep. Is this all there is to life? It's like that lost week I had in April, though as QB pointed out, now I have neither cats, cable, nor whiskey. Sometimes rock bottom has a trapdoor.