Ok, ok, yesterday afternoon I was in a really foul mood. Not that this is essentially different from any other afternoon, usually I'm in the mood to rip somebody a new one by 9 am, so technically I'm behind already for the day.
I want to get my degree. Lack of a degree is keeping me in the cycle of earning bullshit money and not being able to see the world. So I squirrel away as much out of my paycheck as I possibly can, I don't buy new clothes, I drive my cars until the hubs fall off and buy my pantyhose and cosmetics at Wal-Mart, except for hairspray which I bought at the dollar store last night. I am terrified of an old age where I have to live in a rental unit and exist on Ramen.
Ok, ok, technically it's the thought of living in a rental unit that scares me, I happen to like Ramen.
Maybe I'm just bitter because I'm in my thirties, I still live at home with my mom and I don't have a boyfriend right now.
Holy shit, can I digress or what?
Anyway, I need my degree . If for no other reason than in my old age, I could have some Chuck Wagon to mix into my Ramen.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Monday, December 08, 2003
Man, I am so fucking bored out of my skull that I actually volunteered to go to a benefits meeting. How fucking lame is that?
Fourty-five minutes of sitting on a hard assed courtroom seat and my bottom was just about ready to go on strike. By the time I hit the vending machine and the ladies room the meeting was over so nobody really noticed that I bailed early. If they did, fuck them. My directed supervisor (who can't see passed the end of her own fucking nose, she's so self centered) started telling me about the life insurance coverage that our employer was now offering and what a bargain it is and it wouldn't cost me very much and I should consider signing up for it.
Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.
Anyway, lunch was craptacular. Half a (bullshit sandwich shop name) original ham & turkey, minus the turkey because they just didn't put it on there and I was too tired, bored, agitated to argue the point, and a cup of same bullshit sandwich shop's brocolli cheese soup, with florettes. As if florettes made it more appealling than the bogus-assed chicken with wild rice that looked like it was made with Elmer's school glue and smelled faintly of death.
Or, at least what I imagine death would smell like, anyway.
Blech.
On a more positive note, I used up a can of hairspay this morning.
Yep, one can of hairspray, it's all gone. That was the last can I had under the bathroom counter. I don't even have a reserve one on top of the bathroom counter. I do however have countless canisters of gel, mousse, spray gel, and foaming mousse that I haven't even bothered to use since Jesus was a child. One would think that they would eventually get so old as to burst and explode like the forgotten cans of corn and spinach that are long abandoned in the back of the kitchen closet sometimes do. But no, they are currently collecting dust in the confines of the cabinet under the sink. Dust and spider webs. Quite a combination.
Anyway, I've taken two days off this week to work on cleaning up that nasty house. There is so much residual shit in that place that it is not even funny. There is enough dust in my closet alone to plant a garden, and that shit just ain't right. So hopefully with a little time off and the house to myself I can make some headway. At least I can get some crap in the trash without somebody wanting to know why I'm shit-canning something and coudn't it be used for something else.
"Don't throw that out, it'll do for a rag."
"It's threadbare and the butt is torn out of it. Besides, it's cotton-poly blend and it won't soak up water very well."
"It'll do to wipe the floor with."
"When was the last time either one of us wiped the floor?"
Hands fly up in the air, "ok, you're right, you're right, throw it in the trash."
The last statement is intentionally designed to make me fee guilty, and it does, for just a moment, until I realize that somewhere, within the dark confines of the laundry room is a discarded tote bag full of shit that would "do for a rag". Or is that in the living room, maybe it's in the hall closet. But then, her bedroom closet is a possibility as well.
Where is that fucker?
Fourty-five minutes of sitting on a hard assed courtroom seat and my bottom was just about ready to go on strike. By the time I hit the vending machine and the ladies room the meeting was over so nobody really noticed that I bailed early. If they did, fuck them. My directed supervisor (who can't see passed the end of her own fucking nose, she's so self centered) started telling me about the life insurance coverage that our employer was now offering and what a bargain it is and it wouldn't cost me very much and I should consider signing up for it.
Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.
Anyway, lunch was craptacular. Half a (bullshit sandwich shop name) original ham & turkey, minus the turkey because they just didn't put it on there and I was too tired, bored, agitated to argue the point, and a cup of same bullshit sandwich shop's brocolli cheese soup, with florettes. As if florettes made it more appealling than the bogus-assed chicken with wild rice that looked like it was made with Elmer's school glue and smelled faintly of death.
Or, at least what I imagine death would smell like, anyway.
Blech.
On a more positive note, I used up a can of hairspay this morning.
Yep, one can of hairspray, it's all gone. That was the last can I had under the bathroom counter. I don't even have a reserve one on top of the bathroom counter. I do however have countless canisters of gel, mousse, spray gel, and foaming mousse that I haven't even bothered to use since Jesus was a child. One would think that they would eventually get so old as to burst and explode like the forgotten cans of corn and spinach that are long abandoned in the back of the kitchen closet sometimes do. But no, they are currently collecting dust in the confines of the cabinet under the sink. Dust and spider webs. Quite a combination.
Anyway, I've taken two days off this week to work on cleaning up that nasty house. There is so much residual shit in that place that it is not even funny. There is enough dust in my closet alone to plant a garden, and that shit just ain't right. So hopefully with a little time off and the house to myself I can make some headway. At least I can get some crap in the trash without somebody wanting to know why I'm shit-canning something and coudn't it be used for something else.
"Don't throw that out, it'll do for a rag."
"It's threadbare and the butt is torn out of it. Besides, it's cotton-poly blend and it won't soak up water very well."
"It'll do to wipe the floor with."
"When was the last time either one of us wiped the floor?"
Hands fly up in the air, "ok, you're right, you're right, throw it in the trash."
The last statement is intentionally designed to make me fee guilty, and it does, for just a moment, until I realize that somewhere, within the dark confines of the laundry room is a discarded tote bag full of shit that would "do for a rag". Or is that in the living room, maybe it's in the hall closet. But then, her bedroom closet is a possibility as well.
Where is that fucker?
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