Sometimes I think that a person’s job is merely a precursor to hell. It’s God’s way of finding out just how much torment and misery one can take.
Today, I feel as though someone has taken a rather large wire brush and scoured out the inside of my skull. I may have to go purchase Office Space on DVD before I freak about my Streamline stapler.
I can’t update from work anymore, by the way, because I work for the Nazi party and my boss,Herr Rommel, as declared it verboten.
Work sucks. Fridays are supposed to be fluffy days, not “Oh god, I think the clock may actually be moving backwards kind of days.”
In lighter news, I decided that those Chicken Soup for the Soul books and those …For Dummies books should just save paper and do a Chicken Soup for the Dummy’s Soul and save all that valuable shelf space at Borders already. Because they could be putting some T.C. Boyle up there. Or John Irving. Hell, even that Nora Roberts shyte would be better than that.
Today, I had to listen to a coworker expound about how Nora Roberts is so compelling and such an incredibly talented writer. I told her that Nora Roberts was really a fat middle-aged white man named Frank who occaisionally did work on the side designing rooms on Trading Spaces. She laughed and didn’t believe me.
It could happen.
We are supposed to go to Ward and June’s house tonight but Esteban is nowhere to be found. What is more, my mother was doing something in my kitchen today and locked Chelsea out of the dining room (which is where her litter box is because she’s too decrepit to put it elsewhere and she’s easily confused, so it’s just easier to eat in front of the television set and leave the dining room to the cats), therefore when I came home, my mother cheerily informed me that I had a little surprise waiting for me. A big sluglike cat poop log.
Go me!
And it occurred to me today, as I was contemplating my massive outcropping of acne and the blimple that is threatening to take over my nose, that one thing, one solitary thing has changed in my diet.
Starbucks.
I think Starbucks Guy is giving me acne.
The very fact that I am going to get coffee for the reason of flirting with the cute Starbucks Guy and getting zits from it, thus preventing me from going to flirt with the cute Starbucks Guy is irony worthy of long-ass Russian novels. Seriously. I’m just a chubby round Anna Karenina or some shit. But SHE probably never had zits, because I don’t recall something like three pages expounding about her zits.
I did Chekov for my high school acting competition, did you know that? A scene from The Three Sisters. Just thought I’d share.
