June 4
 

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am thrilled to present the winner of my contest to you.  It's the ever delighful and spunky Rog.  And I didn't just pick him because he and his wife let me name their new car, either.   Read his journal.  He is funny.  To everyone else who entered:  people, people.  Mister T is MY TRUCK, not a beloved TV icon I'd like to sleep with.  Geez...

Also, please note:  The following entry IS the winning entry.  It's not my entry.  That's just how good Rog is.
 
 

I have no fucking idea what happened to this picture.  Somewhere in the process of taking it,
saving it or not paying attention to it, I flipped some switch somewhere that told the camera to
x-ray my head.  Please let me know if you spot any cancer clusters, brain clouds or a Mexican
worm.  Thank you.  You are missing out on seeing the boobsmasher of a shirt I'm wearing.
Deal with it.
 
 

I've decided to name my unborn twin Emily.

She's in my foot.  She's literally a pain in my foot.  Literally.

Over the past few months, the death toll for glassware at home has skyrocketed.
The number of usable glasses for a nice frosty beverage is now in single digits.
Too close to a table edge, in the way of a moving arm, not stacked right on the dish
rack, the means to the end was different in every case but I've had a down right rash
of smashed glass.  The first accident was taken very seriously.  The big pieces
were picked up, the liquid mopped up and the crime scene was swept very
carefully.  Didn't want a stray shard missed to cause injury later.  That would be
BAD.  With each successive smash, the care level of cleaning got more lax.  To a
point where if a piece of glass wasn't as big as the baby Jesus then maybe it didn't
make it off the floor.  So I shouldn't have been surprised the other night when I
pivoted on my (bare) foot in the kitchen and felt a stab of pain.  Motherfucker!  I
looked at the bottom of my foot and the blood was starting to flow.  I didn't need
surgery or stitches, but that type of wee cut is just a pain in the ass, er foot, er ass
and foot.  You know what I mean.  I went into nurse mode, cleaned it and slapped a
band-aid on it.  Good to go, have the barkeep send me another vodka with a twist of
orange there Slappy, I am medicine woman!  That should have been that but now I
still have a pain in my foot.  Last night I stripped off that last withered, floppy parts of
the grunge fest that was the band-aid, and started poking at the bottom of my foot.
It's now healed over but I can feel something right under the skin.  It's like a blister in
a way with something hard in it.  Like a piece of glass.  I'm all, "Yo! Fucky! Get OUT
of my foot!" but no luck.  I now refer to it as my unborn twin.  Emily.  Emily the unborn
twin that's a fucking pain in my foot.  Maybe we can get a sweet deal on a TV Sunday
 Night movie when they try to separate us with some fancy operation.
 

In case of fire, give me a headache:

Add to the foot pain, a headache.  I know you are all thinking I am just Ms Weepy
Fuck today, "Oh the pain! the pain!" but I'm pissed about the headache.  There was
an email sent around work that tests were going to be performed on the fire alarms,
but it was to be over by the time I would get to work so I tossed it without a thought.
Today was testing day and apparently the tests didn't go so well because the
alarms have been going off all the fucking time.  Right above my head.  Loudest,
annoying noise.  EVER.  First it freaked me out, then it pissed me off and now I have
a headache with searing, undulating pain.  The first few times it went off, we
shuffled out in the parking lot like good little sheep.  The crowd parting into groups
like any good high school cafeteria crowd.  The idiots who powergossip over there,
the clan of the mouth breathers over there, the lepers who are milling about talking
on cell phones just to avoid everyone else and there's me, trying to avoid being cast
into some sort of class structure while really all I want to do is wander over to Mr T
and make a break for it.  Especially after we were doing this little dance about once
an hour:  Alarms goes off, we shuffle outside;  Fire trucks show up (and not some
TV show fire trucks with hottie pieces of manmeat on them with axes* but real life
fire trucks with overweight, out of shape manmeat who couldn't outrun a blindfolded
monkey retard, let alone save us from the flames of death);  It is determined that no
fire exists, some jibba jabba ensues about how the alarm system needs to be fixed
to stop causing false alarms and wasting valuable emergency resources;  We
shuffle back in and wait for the dance to begin again.

*strange fact though, each time the firemen go into the building, they all carry an axe
with them.  Every single one of them.  I don't have an axe assigned to me with this
job.  I should.  Then next time one of my co-working jumping jackasses gets all up
in my grill, pow!  Axe to the head and I'm a happy girl.  Of course then my desk would
have the stink of dead people.  Hrmmm, tough call but I still want an axe.

So this is not the happy, cheery entry today.  You'll just have to deal with it.  If you
can't, then you're a gelatinous blob, so deal with that.  Don't try and call me to cheer
me up either, because I'm not answering the fucking phone.  I only need for the pain
in my head to stop pulsating.  And Emily to get out of my foot.
 

the other day   |   home   |   email   |    tomorrow
 
 
 

                  sleep walking through the all-nite drug store
                  baptized in fluorescent light
                  i found religion in the greeting card aisle