Time Spent in Hell is Only As Bad As The Genetic Pool Designates

Last Thursday I coasted into the Exxon on Markham and Van Buren with the intention of putting a whole buttload of gas in my wheezing little tank.

Well, we all know how good intentions lead to... something really bad and annoying. Insert whatever that saying actually says and you've got youself a fun time in the Exxon station.

So I pull up in the lot, which is full of ignorant folk playing Wait In Line For Gas when you can OBVIOUSLY pull around to the other pump. But, GOD. That would take a WHOLE LOT OF EFFORT to move my car into the other lane to pump gas. Didn't you know there's a LAW? You HAVE to pump your gas while facing in a Northwesterly direction. To face southeast... well. THAT would be unthinkable.

I find my credit card, buried within the depths of my purse and proceed to amble out into the artificially lit hub that is apparently the Exxon lot. I pop my fuel door. I unscrew my fuel cap. I place my fuel cap in it's designated spot. And then I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

Oh, AND I SWIPE MY CARD.

Each time, this fun little message appears "Card Not Read Now."

What do YOU MEAN by CARD NOT READ NOW??

Eventually I shrug, assuming I'm going to have to carry my sweaty and unattractively clad self into the actual service station. (I desperately wish I could be one of those people that can go to the gym and emerge an hour later looking fresh and glowy-- NO. I look like a sweaty, chubby, red-faced Bernadette-Peters-hair-having freak.) Something that totally pisses me off because I don't even stop at gas stations that are sans pay-at-the-pump thingees.

So I press the handle and start to pump my gas.

Until it starts slowing down at nine dollars... and slows to a CRAWL at nine seventy-five... and trickles in at nine ninety-nine and then STOPS at ten dollars. Just STOPS.
I take a deep breath and hope the gas fumes kill the brain cells that are furiously spinning, looking for a match I can strike and place in the fuel nozzle. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the my car window. Yep. I'm still red-faced. Still chubby. Still have frizzy hair. FANTASTIC.

Walk into service station-- which, I might add, is being run by the illegitimate inbred offspring of MC Hammer, where I am informed of the following:

Inbred: "That girl at pump three is the one that paid the ten dollars."

Me: "That's nice. Um. I need to pay for the gas on pump two-- it cut me off at ten so...."

Inbred: "Yeyeah. You're in that black car on pump two, right?"

Me: "Yes. Black car on pump two. Ten dollars. Here's my card."

Inbred: "But see, that girl has already paid the ten dollars for her pump."

Me (true confusion setting in): "Um. Okay. That's nice. I just want to pay for my ten on pump two."

Inbred: "I'm going to ring you up for the charges on pump three since the girl on that one has already paid the ten."

Me: "Uh. No. Why the hell would I pay for gas on pump three when I pumped gas on pump TWO."

Inbred: "Because the girl on pump three has already paid the ten dollars."

We stare each other down. A good ten seconds go by.

Me: "Put. ten. dollars. on. my. card. please."

Inbred: "Look, here comes the girl on pump three again. Just ask her if she paid the ten dollars."

Me: "But I DON'T CARE if she paid ten dollars for gas, for eyebrow waxing or for a jumbo bag of PORK SKINS. PLEASE PUT TEN DOLLARS ON MY CARD FOR PUMP TWO."

Pump Three Girl: (sensing the utter distress I was in and the iminent violence that was about to had upon the Inbred Girl's ignorant ass) "The clerk opened up the wrong pump for me after I pre-paid ten dollars. I just pumped ten on three, which should cover my gas. (turns to Inbred Clerk) So all you have to do is charge her for ten dollars and everything is fine.

Silence.

I glare in the Inbred's direction. I hand her my card.

Me: "Ten dollars on pump two, please." Said through gritted teeth.

Inbred: "Well. That's what I been trying to tell you the whole time. Gaawwd."


GAH!

My friend Brittany noticed that I was happy on Saturday. Well. HAPPY is a relative word in my universe. I suppose one would categorize me as "happy" if I wasn't spouting off venon at random passerby or emanating disgust and loathing at The People Who Make It Their Business To Annoy Me. But still. I suppose it was a rare occurrence. Which is quite sad. But still.

So here was a rundown of my Saturday. This is in hopes of being able to possibly isolate whatever it was that made me less of a venom-spitter:

I get up early so as to be at work. On my day off. I stop at the McDonalds on Broadway for some steaming coffee. I drive to West Little Rock. I park relatively close the doors since it is Saturday and only 1/8 of the employees manage to drag their ass in. I wear my sunglasses into the building because it's still awfully bright and my eyeballs may melt. I ride the elevator to the fourth floor. I scan myself in and walk slowly to my desk. Notice that everyone else on my team is already there. Except for one. So I'm not the last. Thanks be to the Traffic Was Light Gods. Sit at chair. Make scathing remark to sarcastic chica that sits behind me. Was appluaded by my manager for my barb, it being not five minutes since I had walked in the door. I remind everyone that though the coffee is IN MY HAND do not assume that is HAS BEEN INGESTED. Then notice that manager had brought sausage and egg biscuits for us to consume. I'd hate for him to think I didn't appreciate his gesture. So naturally I ate one.

I work. Laugh and laugh and laugh at the stupid stories we all tell in an effort to amuse ourselves, sad as we are that it's A SATURDAY and we're WORKING in a CUBICLE.

Our system goes down unexpectedly at 2pm so our manager tells us it's a sign from The Fates and we should all go. Possibly because he rides a motorcycle to work and it was about to rain. But who am I to question one's motives, BE THEY NOT PURE??

I stop at Hobby Lobby after finishing up in the office and purchase a frame for the picture my madre got for my kitchen. Very nice lady doing a little cha cha dance in some advertisement for Cuba. So I get home but realize I have no picture hanging aparati. I rifle through my tool bag, finding only wire and screws and some dangerous looking long nails. So I screw in the nails on either side of the picture frame. I wrap wire around each screw head and then secure around the nail I pounded into the wall. I AM BRILLIANT. Who needs store bought mounting equipment WHEN YOU HAVE A FULLY FUNCTIONING BRAIN???

I change clothes and head to Conway to visit Brittany and her new live-in. We shop. We eat. We watch Eddie Izzard. She comments on my happiness.


The End.

Now. Tell me WHAT WAS IT ABOUT THAT DAY that left me venom-less??

I'm Giving You the EVIL EYE.

Are You Gonna Eat That? No? WELL THEN MOVE OVER, LOSER.

Did you know it takes more energy to chew celery than the actual calories inherent IN THE CELERY?

MY GOD.

Can you imagine if foods we actually LIKED came with this property?

Cake, for instance. I love cake. Not so much cookies. But cake, definitely. And not the cake with the super-sugary icing. Because the cake ITSELF needs to be moist and delicious and oh-so-very-mouth-wateringly-tasteee. And the icing needs to be buttercream. Or that really light whipped kind of icing that comes on some cakes. BUT NOT THE FREAKISH KROGER ICING THAT SPARKS OFF INSULIN WARS IN MY PANCREAS.

Other foods?

Hmm.

Cheetos. Cheetos are THE BEST. The one area where Mrs. Federline and I agree. Well... there was that ONE TIME I had sex with my loser backup dancer.. but I think I was high at the time so it TOTALLY doesn't count.

And finally:

ALL MEXICAN FOODS. See, I'm not a super-big fan of the Eye-talian foods. I like them, and I enjoy them, but I don't LURRVE them. Chinese food is awesome but let's be honest-- no one can eat that shit more than once a week. But Mexican food... Honey. I could eat that yummy goodness seven times a day if need be. The state of our nation depends upon eating as much Mexican food as possible? I GOT A PURPLE HEART FOR THAT, BITCH. That baby can't be pulled from that well alive unless that whole tub of Mexican food is eaten right this very second! THAT'S WHY MY MOUTH HINGES OPEN, FOOL. ALL THE BETTER TO INHALE DE MEHEECAN FOOD.



On another, and just as pleasing, note:

THE ANNOYING DATA ENTRY BITCH IS GONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So here's how it went down: I had just sat down to work after yet another PeppityPepPep meeting when DEB (Data Entry Bitch) says "I'm just going to take my picture frames home and change out the pictures in them."

I stare blankly at her because, even though she SEEMS to be aiming her whiny-assed voice in my direction, why would it ever cross her feeble mind THAT I WOULD GIVE A SHIT.

But apparently the silence was too much for her to bear and she finally pipes up with a "Birdie, did you hear meee?"

Thinking: GAH! yes I heard you, you infantile drain on society!

Saying: Yes, I heard you. Silence. (searching brain for appropriate thing to say.) Hope you find some new pictures.

DEB: I'm going to clean out my desk too, while I'm at it. It's so dirty!

Me: Um. Okay. Good luck with that.

So she proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning out her desk and gathering up her picture frames. She mutters and empties things in the trash but I learned a long time ago to not respond to her mutterings becuase IT JUST ENCOURAGES HER TO SPEAK EVEN MORE.

DEB leaves at 11:15am.

12:30pm

1:30pm

2:30pm

Her supervisor comes over and asks what time DEB left for lunch. Expresses concern that DEB has not yet returned.

3:30pm

4:30pm.

Calls made to DEB's cell by her friend in credit and her supervisor. Calls made to home number. Calls made to hospitals.

NOTHING.

So today, she doesn't show up either. We look in her desk and IT'S COMPLETELY EMPTY. She even managed to somehow take the heavy-as-shit tape dispenser and stapler as well as every pen and pencil this side of the Mississippi.

Confusion is expressed that her desk is so empty... and yet her stupid leopard print pillow is still sitting in her chair.

To which I say: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

I AM OFFICIALLY FREE OF THE DEB!!!!!!!!

Her supervisor signed her termination papers a scant hour ago!!!! YEE HAW!

And of course, we felt compelled (and by we, I mean the other nosy, cranky individuals with whom I work) to change her voicemail message. We didn't want anyone to be confused now did we? And if we just happened to listen to her voicemails while we were at it? Just making sure there was nothing important on there!

HERE'S TO YOU, DEB! YOU HAD 4 COLLECTION PHONE CALLS IN 24 HOURS ON YOUR VOICEMAIL AND YOUR OUTGOING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED!

CHEERS!

A Post In Which I Get To Bash Another's Way of Thinking Because I'm Female And Of Course That Makes Me Right So Blow Me.

While reading a blog I had NO BUSINESS reading (as the author of the blog no longer writes on the previous blog that I read, creating this new one that I'm sure was meant to keep out ruffians such as myself) I got through about half of The Author's ramblings and realized-- HE'S SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK. I thought maybe he was venting... maybe even using a little bitter sarcasm to drive his point home. NOPE. He's serious.

Which honestly... just makes me sad.

Here's an excerpt:

You see, I have this rule - I don't get really close with the people with which I work. To me, becoming friends with those at work, as opposed to being friendly is a no no; simply, it comes at a price.I know that this sounds jaded and cynical, but I just think that there is a definite line to be drawn. Half of the time, these are people that you would never even have met in the first place and would honestly never choose to go out drinking with. It tends to play out like this, "hey WHY is Judith from Marketing feeling my knee whilst trying to talk to me about the budget?" Or, "is Jeremy from MIS running around outside of the restaurant with his shirt off AGAIN, after having one too many, screaming about how George Lucas totally destroyed his aspirations of ever becoming a Jedi Knight?"

To which I say: WHAT THE FUCK.

Why is meeting someone at work ANY DIFFERENT than meeting someone at church? Or at a bar? You have just as much in common with a co-worker as someone with whom you attend worship services. What makes someone you may meet at church or at a friend's house any different than someone you meet at work? I've met many "friend-of-a-friends" that I haven't cared for at all, just as I've met many co-workers for whom I don't particularly care. But OCCASIONALLY I meet someone-- in a bar, in a social circle, in a class, in a work environment, that I absolutely ADORE.

And it may truly be someone with whom I have nothing in common-- but that's the beauty of it. If I surrounded myself with like individuals I think my life would be pretty boring. I like the spice these extra people add to my life and I'm thankful I took that extra non-jaded step to let them in. Where did this guy's close friends come from? From college days? Talk about a mixture of socio-economic backgrounds and religions and viewpoints and ethnicities! It's just like work-- instead of the primary focus being a corporate goal, the primary focus is learning. Everyone was there for similar reasons and there were probably a lot of people in college this guy didn't want to waste 3 seconds looking at, much less talking to. But for whatever reason, I'm sure he befriended some of them. And what was the harm? Maybe some of these friendships came and went... maybe some of them stayed. Who cares. The point is, why cut yourself off from people who could turn out to be beautiful, inspring friends? Yes, there's always that chance a friendship may sour but we take that chance with ANYONE. Why cut off such a huge portion of your day? You spend eight hours a day at work, toiling away. Why not let it be a semi-happy (or at least moderately-bearable) place? I'll be the first to tell you that there are two women at work that I had never met before stepping foot in this place-- and I adore them. Beyond that, there's a good dozen individuals that I truly enjoy. These people make my day go faster and I appreciate them for having an open heart and letting others in.

So. Now that I've ranted and rambled-- let me say I didn't want this to sound like a personal attack. The subject matter is what got to me-- and I couldn't hold my tongue.
It just seems like a more of an effort to NOT be friends with someone you may like just because they're work-related than it would to just give in and BE FRIENDS. And Lord Knows I'm never going to make an extra effort for something when the easy route can be so fabulous and give me hundreds more people from which to choose.

**Note: Of course, I'm normally write about cynical and jaded things and spouting off the above nonsense is seemingly quite touchy-feely and whatnot. I don't write about the happy-go-lucky days or the peaceful days or the days when good-things-happen because.. well, sometimes I like them to just be mine. So instead I'm perfectly happy to be the one that points the finger and says NO NO BAD DOG, THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU GO ABOUT THAT AT ALL.
I can do this because I say I can SO THERE.

PEACE OUT BITCHES

Might I add that I SEND HOLY THANKS TO THE GOD OF VACATION REQUESTS because I'm gettin out of town on a southbound train. Countdown: One hour and 7 minutes until interstate velocity is reached!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THREE WHOLE DAYS OF SITTING ON MY MOTHERS COUCH, DOING NOTHING BUT DISCUSSING WHATEVER HOME DECORATING/IMPROVEMENT/DESTRUCTION SHOW HAPPENS TO BE ON THE LEARNING CHANNEL.

O BLESS-ED BE THE VACATION REQUEST GODS!! BLESS-ED!!!

Bouncy.

I would like to voice a complaint.

Why is it that if my bra size is of a CERTAIN SIZE I am confined to plain jane bras?

What if I want to wear pretty bras?

I have pretty underoos.

So why not bras?

And before you think I'm that girl, complaining "Oh, my boobs, they are just SO BIG, I can't stand it! Ooooo!" <--said with sorority girl voice I'M VOICING A VALID COMPLAINT HERE, NOT DRAWING ATTENTION TO MY BRA SIZE, THANK YOU.

The pretty bras, they go up to size 36D, sometimes 38D if you're really lucky. There's even a 36DD for those women who either a) pad their bras b) have leetle waists and naturally giant bazoombas or d) have gotten their shit surgically enhanced.

BUT GOD FORBID THAT I GET TO WEAR A NICE, PRETTY, LACY BRA. NO. I'M STUCK WITH THE ONES THAT ASSUME THAT BECAUSE YOU'VE GOT JUGS, YOU'D LIKE TO BE COVERED UP TO YOUR COLLAR BONE IN BRA-AGE.

And now the new plain-fucking-jane bra I bought makes my boobs go in opposite directions. LIFT AND SEPERATE, PEOPLE. LIFT AND SEPERATE. Girls with tits don't need that shit squashed down and pointed sideways. UP AND OUT.

Ugh.

Hmmmm. Interesting. You answer a few questions and PRESTO the computer knows all about you.

Actually though, all of those are true. But it would also be true if you said "You love animals and would stop for an abandoned dog" or "Your sometimes push others away."

Crazy computer.

WhatchyoutalkinboutWillis?

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free.

In love, you feel the most alive when your lover is creative and never lets you feel bored.

You'd like to your lover to think you are stylish and alluring.

You would be forced to break up with someone who was ruthless, cold-blooded, and sarcastic.

Your ideal relationship is open. Both of you can talk about everything... no secrets.

Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment.

You think of marriage as something that will confine you. You are afraid of marriage.

In this moment, you think of love as something you thirst for. You'll do anything for love, but you won't fall for it easily.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

A Bottle of Water

Ok. I feel like a hypocrite.

Not really in the sense you're thinking, though.

I feel like I LOOK like a hyocrite to someone.

And me no likey that feeling.

I realized after I walked away (and analyzed the converstation, as I do with every conversation with every person in the known world I've ever had a conversation with, possibly taking up millions of neurons of brain space with my ridiculous analyzing of words, spellings of words (even when spoken), body language, current attire, etc) that the few things this cat knew about me would seem totally incongruous with the fact that I TAKE CARE OF BABIES IN A NURSERY, IN A CHURCH. Babies brought into said nursery with the sole purpose of the parents having a quiet moment to absorb The Word of God through the Holy Mouth of The Preacher-Man in the Beautiful and Sancitified Sanctuary.

I guess what I want to say (and what I did not say before, in conversation, distracted by sleep deprivation as I was) is that I don't think it's wrong, or even necessarily bad, for these children to be brought up in the church. Afterall, I was brought up in the church. My one hope is that they have tolerant and understanding parents. Or that maybe they run into that kind of adult at some point. A teacher. Or a nursery worker. Someone, at somepoint, who lets them know it's okay to be whatever you want. That loving someone of another religion doesn't make you bad and that changing your viewpoints on religion and faith and the creeds and morals you carry with you daily is healthy, normal and it makes you stronger, more adaptable. AND MORE IMPORTANTLY that if they decide to hold to their current faith, the one their parents obviously hold so dear, THAT THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. As long as they can love people without condemnation, it's okay. That's all I ask.
Of course, the fact that they pay me is nice as well.

But I wouldn't be doing it if I laughed at these people behind their backs, thinking I had found the better path, the more righteous way, etc. I'm grateful and appreciative that these parents have something to believe in, that these kids have parents who so obviously make them a priority in their lives and that the strength of their faith gives them comfort. Just because my faith is slightly different doesn't make theirs any more or less right-- or mine more or less wrong.

So there. The internet world cares not, I know. And Conversation Person from this morning will not read this. And I would feel like a douche bag if I just walked up out of nowhere and laid out my thought process. So instead, I lay it out here. Which makes me feel slightly better. Which is what this is about anyway. My self absorbtion broadcast loudly for all the world to read.

Really? That's nice. Now BLOW ME.

So.
Please don't whine to me over the phone that my company doesn't let you make any money. If you knew how to do your job right, you could make money. But don't whine to me about it BECAUSE IT'S NOT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO GIVE LESS OF A SHIT.

Please don't whine to me about how hard it is to do data-entry all day. I'm sure it must be hard having that whiny-assed voice that grates on my VERY LAST NERVE and driving your brand new car with DVD AND NAV SYSTEMS that you bought on your DATA ENTRY PAYCHECK. Please, keep talking, BECAUSE I MAY STAB YOU IN THE EYE.

And you, the one that chats on the phone all day, GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE SO THE REST OF US DON'T HAVE TO TAKE UP YOUR SLACK. Mouth breathing lazy-ass skank.
And OHMIGOD she's on the phone AGAIN. He DOESN'T LIKE YOU. GIVE IT UP.

Also, I hate peanut butter. I hate peanut butter in ANY form. This includes peanut butter cookies. Stop buying peanut butter cookies as a motivator for me, and the rest of my coworkers, to do our jobs. BUY BROWNIES. I'll blow you for brownies.

My hand, it is shaking. I'm that tired. I need a day off. A whole day where I don't have to get up and wash clothes, clean the bathroom, clean the kitchen, sweep the house, scoop cat litter, return things to Target, etc, etc. A day where these things have already been taken care of and I can relax on my lawn chair on my back porch and watch my neighbors cats watching the squirrel watching the cats while it eats the cat's food.

Also, the fact that I went "camping" last weekend for The Fouth does not mean I had days off. I was hot, sweaty and I've still got a crick in my neck from sleeping on the ground.

GRRRR goes the postman

So. Feeling quite proud of myself.

I installed my newly received Airport card last night ALL BY MYSELF.

Sure. You're thinking "Well, damn. I thought all you had to do was slide it in."

NO. That is not how it works AT ALL.

It took 45 minutes of reading weird translated instructions-- instructions designed to be used with an iMac -- NOT an iBook -- for me to figure out what needed to happen.

So after what appeared to be the correct installation, I decided I would try out my new wireless internet capabilities at my friendly neighborhood Coffee Beanery.

SO HERE I SIT. BEAMING MOLECULES OF FREE INTERNET INTO MY MAC.

I'm especially excited. And though I've only got 6 minutes left on my lunch break (I spent the first 40 minutes surfing through sites I have not been able to, er, appreciate fully while at work. NO, I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT PORN. gutter minds. Just possibly some blogs that would edge onto the "NO ZONE" at work.)

So. Here's what I've decided (because poor people have got to be creative):

I will continue bringing my lunch to work everyday but drive one block over to the Coffee Beanery, where I shall sit in my car and BEAM MOLECULES OF FREE INTERNET INTO MY MAC.

Yes, you are correct. I'm avoiding purchasing a $1.67 coffee every day on my lunch break by sitting super-shadily in the parking lot BEAMING MOLECULES OF FREE INTERNET INTO MY MAC.

I am GENIUS.

were you aware that they still made banana clips??

because i wasn't.

but some girl is SURE SPORTING ONE TODAY, GOD HELP HER.

Yes?

Pardon my eavesdropping but,

HOW THE FUCK IS THE WHINY-VOICED LAZY-ASS DATA ENTRY BITCH ON HER CELL PHONE AT WORK TALKING ABOUT HER BRAND NEW CAR SHE JUST BOUGHT THAT HAS A NAV SYSTEM, DVD PLAYER AND LEATHER??????

I mean. FUCK.

This is the slut that rolls her eyes at me when I hand her my data-entry paperwork. DATA ENTRY IS NOT MY JOB, WHORE. IT'S YOURS. SUCK IT UP.

This is the skank that doesn't clock out for lunch and then whines that everyone is always talking down to her and telling her she needs to "shape up."

This is the broad that wants MY SYMPATHY because she's been here for FOUR WHOLE MONTHS and hasn't been promoted out of data-entry. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. DO THE MATH.

If You Were a Box of Jello, What Flavor Would You Be?

This Morning:
Slept until 9:30 am.
Cats were curled up together at the end of the bed. The only morning I theoretically don't have to be up and dressed and work-i-fied, they sleep like angels. Any other morning, they'd be playing Chase the Imaginary Monster Down the Hall OR the Imaginary Monster is Chasing the Kitties, RUN, OR Look at the Blinds, Kitties! Try and Climb Them!
I wake up.
Decide am not taking shower because I had one yesterday and it's the weekend and WHO CARES IF I SMELL.
Walk into kitchen. Feed cats, change kitty-water.
Accidentally lock Fat Kitty into small midget closet in kitchen where kitty-food is kept. 20 minutes later hear plaintive meowing. Release Fat Kitty from trauma-inducing closet. Hold Fat Kitty, Pet Fat Kitty, Assure Fat Kitty that Mommy is very sorry and would never intentionally lock Fat Kitty in dark midget closet.
Open closet door and critically eye the clothing choices for the day. Decide on black loose stretchy pants, green long tank top and black stretchy tee. Decide will wear gold flip flops even though work dresscode prohibits flip flops.
Walk into kitchen. Stand in center. Remember have no food that could possibly be construed as "breakfast" consumable.
Spritz hair with Febreeze. A pre-emptive measure used when am too lazy to bathe and bar smell may have infiltrated hair follicles.
Spritz self with perfume. No point in being utterly disgusting.
Apply eyeliner, black eyeshadow, lipgloss and bronzer.
Slect large disc-like earrings from jewelry case.
Scoop kitty litter as have noticed poo smell emanating from kitty poo area.
Wash hands. Kitty poo may have burrowed under hand-skin to attack unsuspecting body molecules.
Decide am ready to go.
Walk out to car.
Stand for 3 minutes staring at THE DING SOME MOTHER FUCKER PUT IN THE SIDE OF MY CAR THAT SCRATCHED MY PAINT AND MARRED THE BLACK SMOOTHNESS OF MY VEHICLE. I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN YOU IGNORANT PENIS-LESS BITCH. I had noticed the ding on Thursday but had been unable to fully appreciate ding as had first become aware of ding in the half-light available when I get off work.
Drive to West Little Rock.
Stop at Coffee Beanery for croissant and large coffee. Not the coffee with all the weird shit in it. Just PLAIN. ASS. COFFEE. The LARGE, please.
Can see work building.
Pull into parking lot.
Rest head on steering wheel.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Cannot run away today.
Need paycheck next week.
Clock in at 10:45.
11:45 realize friend Lilleeeee is also at work. Discuss Lilleeeee's cha cha pains (as had rigorous night of, um, festivities). Ascertain that boo-tay is not also in pain. (See Lilleeee's description of boo-tay pain at lilylala.modblog.com)
Lilleeeee did not bathe either. So there.
Other friend Jill is also at work.
Decide tonight will be a margarita ladies-drink-some-other-guys-tequila-that-they-themselves-did-not-pay-for night. Meaning that Jill will be bringing over the bottle that her unsuspecting special friend left over at her house. Stupid boy.
Realize have spent as much time as humanly possible wasting time and will now proceed to work.
Random thought before posting: Hmmm. Well. Cannot put thought into words. Will try another day.
*blows kiss*

An Entry in Which I Am Reminded of a Shirt My Brother Used To Wear: The Many Moods of an Alien

I feel restless and edgy and at a loss and my mouth waters in anticipation of something I can't quite put my finger on. I'm spoiling for a fight and craving the feel of a hand on the back of my head, palm on my neck, fingers splayed. I feel lost and adrift and full of wide eyes and confusion because I realize where I've planted myself and I'm overcome with the urge to run. Run to one of those places so ingrained in my memory that I can still conjure up the smell of dry heat, wet stench, cold air or the smell that is New York.

I want to run to these places, find solace in anonymity and start over.

Because I'm absolutely and utterly terrified I picked the wrong path, as Robert Frost would say. That cliched poem, chosen by so many high school graduates, reverbrates in my head because I see the dozens, hundreds, thousands of paths I could have taken and I see that not all of them would have been good, some of them lead right back here and others lead to that point in the road that rises in gentle slope until you can no longer see of the top of the hill so you slow down, approaching the top with just the barest of trepidation because you know the road extends, you know it doesn't drop off into nothingness, but it's a bit like choosing door number 2 on The Price is Right-- a total crapshoot. One where there could be a shiny new car or a set of dishtowels. Both useful, neither harmful. But one is definitely more appealing than the other.

I saw my reflection in a mirror this moring and I saw how my hair seemed to gleam today, how my hips looked beautiful and curvy in my black skirt, how delicate and feminine my ankles appeared, resting in my blue shoes. I saw the slope of my ribcage begin just under my breasts, flowing like carved water into my thighs, my knees, my toes. My eyes looked bright and I felt like I might actually stand out, like I might actually catch someone's, anyone's attention. I saw my visage and for that moment, saw beauty, saw past the heavy eyelids, the face I stare at, absently, a thousand times a day. The face I watch, warily, while drawing on my eyeliner, patting my cheeks with rouge and glossing my lips. For a second that face wasn't mine and I saw what it would be like to be aware of myself; conscious of being female, of having this strange kind of attractiveness and always knowing it was there, knowing that the life inside my skin was mine and I had taken it and let it thrive. Not thrust inside the skin I normally see, with scars on my hands, my knees; small but there, a reminder of the time I burned my hand in the oven, fell on the sidewalk, or ran a knife down the top of my hand, watching for the well of blood that was accompanied by the greatest sense of release, relief, too scared to continue, knowing what I'd become. A road I didn't choose.

All of this a contradiction to the night before, when I caught my eye in the armoire mirror, bending over to turn off the television set, close the doors and retreat into my bedroom. I saw me, aghast, my chin soft, my arms soft, my middle soft and round. Not the good soft, but the soft that comes from too much time taken up by stray thoughts, work and exhaustion, remembering what it felt like to be strong, feeling muscle under my skin so smooth and taut. Never skinny, or even slim. Just toned and firm, breasts round and hips gentle. Legs that felt like a mile long, or maybe that I could run a mile, kick a mile, even lift a mile if I so chose. Seeing in the mirror a complete distortion of who I am, was. Makeup worn away after hours of rubbing my face in frustration. Hair hanging ragged around my face, looking as worn out as I felt. "I'm twenty-five," I think. "What will this be like when I'm...." and I can't fill in the blank. I can't fathom more years, more exhaustion, more nothingness.

Around and round in circles I go, where I stop, no one but me knows.

And then I come back around from this morning, my feeling of awareness has vanished and in it's place is a combination of anticipation and melancholy. I know I can change things, but I keep getting so distracted, so confused by the thousands upon thousands of questions swirling in my head. I miss the days of only 6 years ago, when I was so sure, so confident in the path I had chosen. I knew what my career would be, my life-friends were just starting to emerge from the depths of dormitory halls and I could feel the eyes of men, some lecherous and some curious, as I walked through doorways and and arches, unconcerned with my choices, knowing they were right and good and I knew I was me. Confused, maybe, sometimes, and always a little bit crazy. But I could feel a part of me. Everything happened in whirlwind-like fashion and I embraced it and worked hard at everything I thought I would be, at everything I had planned to become. And somewhere along the line, a combination of events, possibly The Event, marked a beginning of sorts. A beginning where I consistently feel like I'm making the wrong decision.

By now I feel encased in those decisions, unable to escape. I have to exist, survive, remain sane, therefore I have to have this job, that job, remember that job? It wears me down until one day I realize that yes, I am crazy. Not the good kind of crazy. Just crazy. And though I'm better, better than five years ago, better than 2 years ago, better than six months ago, I'm still not me. I'm still walking through water with ear muffs on. Too many thoughts and responsibilities and even though I know that retreating into my head is the very worst thing I can do, I want to, crave to do it anyway.

The List is back from "hiatus." Also known in some circles as "rehab" SHHHHH. It's totally fine. No judgements.

How better to spend my Saturday, stuck at work, in a cubicle-- THAN BY USING COMPANY TIME TO ADD TO MY LIST? I am a genius.

38. My incisor tooth on the bottom right is EXCEPTIONALLY pointy and sharp. Not so much that it stands out among the rest of my teeth (which are straight and white, thanks to orthodontia and Crest Whitening) but sharp enough that it's a ceaseless source of amusement to run my tongue or finger over it when pondering the meaning of mullets or why people have children when they SO OBVIOUSLY SHOULD NOT HAVE PROPAGATED THE DANK POND THAT IS THEIR GENE POOL.

37. If you purchase an SUV or truck, PLEASE, reconsider lowering the suspension and having the undercarriage drag the fucking ground. IT'S FUCKING SACRILEGIOUS. If you BUY and SUV, I'm going to assume you bought it for a purpose. AND WHAT FUCKING PURPOSE DOES IT SERVE WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO SLOWER THAN ME IN MY HONDA WHEN COMING OUT OF THE TARGET PARKING LOT? I'll tell you-- NO FUCKING PURPOSE WHATSOEVER EXCEPT MAKING IT QUITE CLEAR TO THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, A GIANT DOUCHE.

36. Bird noises totally creep me out.

35. I don't do sports that involve anything between my body and the ground. This would include skiing and um, skiing. Both water and snow.

34. I don't do sports where balls fly at my head. It's unnatural. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DUCK, PEOPLE.

33. I sleep on my stomach. One leg hiked up. Pillow under head. Pillow under arm. Arm wrapped around pillow and pulled close to chest.

32. Be prepared to let me stop and pee on any trip longer than one hour. It's gonna happen. Just accept it.

31. I like the sound of fast typing. When I was 10, I begged my mother for a typing program that we could use on our old-school computer. She obliged and I learned how to type by Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.

30. I'm not bitchy or cranky or pissy or stand-offish. <---Actual comments made about how I behave in many social settings. People are overwhelming. I'm not going to hug, touch, love-up-on or schmooze with random people I don't know. I have to watch them. THEN I'll decide if I want to make conversation.

29. When I used white-out as kid, I had to make sure I painted out the word completely, in a perfect little white-out box. I then had to let it dry until the PERFECT STATE OF DRYNESS where I could write on it but it was still a little soft -- not so soft it made the jagged edges around your pen when you wrote-- but soft enough where it just enveloped the ink and it would stand out against the dull ink surrounding it.

28. I've been to The Netherlands, Belgium, France and Spain. But here in The States, I've only been to New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennesee, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, New York and New Jersey. That leaves out a WHOLE HELL A LOT OF THE COUNTRY. Guess I have a lot of traveling to do.

28 is an acceptable number to end on becase 8 is divisable by 2, which equals 4, which is made up of two 2's.

HOLYA CRAPOLA

DO YOU FOLK REALLY THINK I'D REFER TO MYSELF AS A TRUE LADY?

OF COURSE I USE THE WORD 'PUSSY'

examples:

"Get outta my way you fucking pussy!" <--- this is said almost every morning and is aimed at ANYONE AND EVERYONE who is in my way.

"He is SUCH a pussy" <--- used in reference to the giant douche bags with whom I work.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a pussy on your head?" <--- rhetorical thinking. While intoxicated.

"She blatantly flaunts that pussy" <---- used to describe brazen hussies that let their shit hang out of skirts, 14-year-old girls dressed like hookers and anyone sporting a camel-toe.

and the most recent use of the word 'pussy:'

"MY PUSSY WAS NEARLY BURNED RIGHT OFF BY THAT NAIR SHIT!"

total word 'pussy' word count: 7

And all is Well.

I have been at work such a very, very long time and as eager as I am to go home, I'm even more eager TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY FUCKING WEEKEND.

Perhaps eager is a strong word choice. But everyone else gets to talk about their weekend and SO WILL I.

My weekend: Superfantabulous.

Friday: BB King at Riverfest. Beer. Drama involving ex-friend-who-is-a-boy-but-involved-exceptional-amount-of-benefits-who-was-removed-some-months-past-and-who-has-not-been-seen-since-October-because-he-moved-to-Oklahoma. Hear voice behind me and he's sitting NOT THREE INCHES from my head. Long eye contact. Have awkward conversation with boy where awkwardness is acknowledged. Sleep.

Saturday: beer, eating, beer, jam band, beer, contact high, beer, Black Crows at Riverfest, beer, stumbling home over the river bridge and walking to my apartment BECAUSE MY APARTMENT FUCKING ROCKS AND IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF DOWNTOWN. (4 blocks, to be precise). Sleep.

Sunday: hangover, chat with mom while Nair'ing legs, forget about Nair on legs and BURN THE EVER LOVING SHIT OUT OF MY THIGHS. Especially that very delicate and tender area oh-so-near the nanny area. (nanny is code for pussy. but pussy is a un-delicate word that true ladies such as myself NEVER USE.) Put on most non-touchy underwear possible. read: none. Put on soft cotton stretchy pants and hoodie, walk delicately out to car and drive to meet lileeeee. Drive to Starbucks for coffee that eliminates hangover but does nothing for burned inner thighs though yummy berry cake distracts me for a minute while I contemplate the meaning of berry cake and lemon icing. Drive to lake, get on boat, starts to rain, pull hoodie over head and relax. Beer. Nap. Eat. Beer. TV shows till 3am. Sleep.

Monday: Eat. TV. Beer. Drive home and attempt to watch DVD (as am too poor for cable, as well as internet) when DVD player STOPS WORKING AND I BECOME VERY DISTRAUGHT BECAUSE THE DVD PLAYER IS MY ONLY SOURCE OF MINDLESS ENTERTAINMENT. Drive to Target, buy new DVD player and purchase snazzy antenna that claims to be high-powered enough to pick up local channels. Drive home, fiddle with DVD player, finally get cords in correct slots and might I mention that if you're going to make red-tipped cords and red-tipped holes, then MAKE SURE THE RED THINGS ACTUALLY GO TOGETHER BECAUSE THAT CRAP CONFUSES POOR GIRLS SUCH AS MYSELF. Hook up antenna. No drama. Watch rest of movie. Assemble weird Glade plug-in oil things and place throughout new apartment because have not been able to rid apartment of other-person smell. Smell is remniscent of sweaty kids and smoky smoky. Apartment becomes overwhelmed by scent of lavender garden spring rain linen showers. Realize oil thingees have A DIAL FOR WHICH TO CONTROL SCENT and turn down dial to bring scent to moderate level. Sleep.