After the thing about the soup, I checked our pantry.
We have 19 cans of Campbell’s soup. All lined up on their very own shelf.
It’s like Andy Warhol had sex in our pantry.
Don’t ask me how it’s like that. It just is.
Somehow, somewhere, I became the person at work that everyone says ‘Hi’ to in the halls. Everyone. The weird old building manager guy, the grumpy ladies who go out back to smoke every ten minutes, the various vice presidents, the mail delivery ladies. Everyone. And they all know my name. ‘Hi Weetabix!’ they say. ‘Hi!’ I try to say back, cheerily, to hide the fact that I have no clue what their name is.
Sometimes, if I see someone coming who will most certainly say ‘Hi’ to me, I’ll duck down another hallway to avoid it.
I’m going to hell. I know this already.
The thing is that being that girl whom everyone knows is great if you’re trying to get promoted or something, but if you’ve just got to sneak into the bathroom and have some ‘quiet time’, it’s not so nice. Or maybe it’s just me, for feeling guilty being seen walking into the bathroom and not emerging after a few minutes.
I was in there earlier today and someone came in and proceeded to flush no fewer than five times, presumably to disguise the noises which inevitably come with long-term bathroom visits.
Five times.
I would think a subtle thip would be less conspicuous than FLUSHHHH VROOOOM of flushing our industrial strength heavy use toilets. And the draft that they must be getting. That’s enough to inflict oneself with performance anxiety right there. I mean, the thought of having one’s tender regions hovering precariously above icy churning and possibly fetid waters. It’s enough to make you clench.
Man. This entry has really gone in the toilet. No pun intended.
I really want me a bowling shirt.
Mo called me yesterday and I started to tell her about my dentist appointment and she stopped me. ‘I know. I read it in your diary.’
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t have to talk to you any more because I can keep up with everything by reading your diary. I know that you’re giving Abby a Talking Woody for Christmas too.’
Damned Mo.
