Monday, February 21, 2005

Cotton Candy

Well, it’s currently 8:01 and 52 seconds. I have another five minutes to kill, sitting witless in cubicle-land, because SOMEONE didn’t get her ass in GEAR this morning. And yeah, that finger that’s pointing so unmercifully in the manner that your mother always told you not to do, is pointing right at ME. You see, I can always find something useful to do with my time when I’m running late. When it’s Saturday afternoon I’d sooner eat a bag of used kitty litter than do my laundry but GOD FORBID I let my clothes sit in the dryer just ONE MOMENT LONGER when Monday morning rolls around. And Lord Knows I couldn’t ever leave the house without running back upstairs to put away my straightening iron, left sitting on the counter last week when I was overcome with the need to fry my frizzy little strands into shiny submission.

I’ve got 30 seconds to go. And then I can make the breath-stealing walk up 40 bazillion flights of stairs so inconsiderately concreted into the side of a mini-mountain up to the parking lot where I insist upon parking my spanky new black vehicle. Might I specify that this is my DING-FREE spanky new black vehicle. It’s shiny soul-less black depths are like candy to diabetic eyes.


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