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You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am an independent web developer living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
Due to a boring series of events that lead to the misplacement of my debit card, followed by one of my perfectly good credit cards getting inexplicably declined the very next day, I have felt very devalued the last few days. It's not that my self-worth is tied up in money (which would be sad), it's that my sense of power and freedom is tied up in money (which is just as sad, but not unfounded).
In an attempt to have something in hand (greenbacks) in order to give me a greater sense of security in my monetary worth (cash never gets declined), I went to the bank today to obtain a temporary ATM card, which is something Bank of America offers while you wait for your new check card to come in. It doesn't give you debit access but does give you access to cash via ATM machines. I usually never carry cash, but I figure it's better than credit cards or (gasp!) writing checks for the next however many days/weeks it takes for my new card to get to me.
I went inside the the bank for maybe the third time ever in more than four years of living here; I spent 15 minutes with a teller and made away with my temporary card, no sweat.
Then came the gawd-awful touch screen ATM. Only fellow BoA customers know my pain; 90% of the time, the touchscreens don't work as expected or don't work at all. In this case, because I had a brand new card, it wanted me to choose my “ATM customizations“, beginning with my language. I pressed English.
Nothing. I pressed it again and again. After a period of time in which the machine felt there was no response from me, it asked me if I would like more time. the only way I could get it to respond for my request for more time was to press enter on the actual goddamn keypad.
I went through this song and dance with my Automatic Teller four times before leaving the building and walking around to the red-headed stepchild ATM in the back, which, while ghetto fantastic in only two colors and no “customizations“, at least has real buttons that fucking work. I mean really.
The machine being a little out of date, I had some slight trouble getting it to take my card at first, but eventually I got it going and we were well on our way. No selecting languages, no looking at mortgage advertisements while they “process my transaction” just PIN, Fast Cash, and Amount. Get the the cash(! yey!) and grab the card... which seemed to be stuck in the machine.
“Thank you for visiting. Please enter your card to continue.” The black screen mocked me with it's lime green 16-bit illustrations of a chubby hand feeding a card into a hungry, devouring ATM. My card was no where to be found. Frustrated, I threw my hands into the air and screamed “FUCK IT!”. I turned to walk to work, gesticulating and speaking to no one in particular as I strode angrily down the sidewalk. “I GIVE UP!”
This is really one of those stories that works better out loud; one can amplify the importance and entertainment of otherwise mundane details with tone, sarcasm, and general merriment. I told this story to coworkers or sets of coworkers at different times throughout my day and was met with great empathy, and laughter. I actually got all the frustration about my ever-increasingly ridiculous plastic situation out in the course of the conversations, and I would normally not even write out a “better-out-loud” story, the exception being made tonight to expose one significant, potentially narrative-altering detail: in the course of balancing my checkbook this evening, what I found, in my wallet and in perfectly plain sight in a clear vinyl pocket—that damn temporary ATM card that was “eaten” by the ghetto machine.
Remember, I was standing at the ATM when I decided I had been taken. This was probably only a moment after I took the card from the machine with my own hands and placed it back in my wallet. The thing is, I have absolutely no recollection of this happening. If I were to believe my own memory instead of the clear physical evidence in front of me, I would still swear that my card was eaten, as I clearly remember being enraged and frustrated by the whole course of events. It doesn't feel fuzzy at all; it feels completely lucid and true. A lucid and true event where I apparently blacked out for 10 seconds at 10:15 in the morning.
What can we conclude from this? I don't know if it's a mark of stress or just plain lunacy, but the fact is, Jenna Tollerson is loosing it.
It's not often that a class assignment leaves your faith in humanity shattered.
Tonight, as an part of an assignment for my Social Psychology class, I had to go on campus to view The Experiment, a dramatized version of an experiment set up like the famous 1971 Stanford Prison Experiment.
We wanted to see what the psychological effects were of becoming a prisoner or prison guard. To do this, we decided to set up a simulated prison and then carefully note the effects of this institution on the behavior of all those within its walls....
Our study of prison life began, then, with an average group of healthy, intelligent, middle-class males. These boys were arbitrarily divided into two groups by a flip of the coin. Half were randomly assigned to be guards, the other to be prisoners.
In the movie, things escalate to an exaggerated, Hollywood-esque high boiling point. However, many of the early events in the film were lifted right from the original real experiment, namely, systematic and sadistic humiliation of the “prisoners” by the “guards”.
I honestly haven't felt this sick and upset by events having nothing to do with me since seeing the film taken of the Milgram experiment, in which participants were admonished by authority figures to deliver what they believed to be possibly lethal electric shocks to other participants (actually actors working as confederates).
It's disheartening that, despite all our claims of individualism and our confidence in our own free will, I am reminded that given certain situations, nearly anyone can be molded, devalued, given anonymity, shaped by group-think, their will beaten down, or else, made to do things that go against their own conscience.
My plan was to come home and study for my test on Wednesday, but honestly I feel so nauseated I can't concentrate.
I probably wouldn't be so strongly affected, of course, if I was in more of a happy-go-lucky mood lately. What I really need at this time is reminders that life is indeed worth living; all I seem to be getting is avowals that it's not.
You wake up at 10 til 10 the morning after, still drunk, feeling like someone punched you in the right kidney.
Overall you could say I had fun, but there were many parts of the evening that didn't turn out well at all.
My former roommate Emily works as an intelligence executive (i.e. librarian), and a few days a week she sends out a “Title of the Day” e-mail, the content of which is culled from reading only the covers of the books she handles each day. Her commentary in this e-mail, however, is especially priceless:
Ladies and Gents,
The title of the day is “Pornified: How pornography is transforming our lives, our relationships, and our families.”Consequently, the word of the day shall be “pornified.” Say it out loud. PORNIFIED. so satisfying. Use it in a sentence — “Bobby Joe went down to the adult video store over yonder, and done got himself pornified.”
There is something very dooce-like about Emster's writing style, don't cha think?
The fear that you won't wake up on time. Again.
This is entirely counterproductive.
FOR SERVICES RENDERED IN THE AREA OF FREAKING. (SFW); after-work beer with my boy Brown; wallowing shamefully in self-loathing; remembering that next week is a brand-new week and I can do anything
You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am an independent web developer living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
