Friday, June 29, 2007

Better late than never. I think.


I'm Meg.

I don't really know what I'm doing. Blogger confuses me all to hell, which is interesting, since everyone else seems to think it's the most simple blogging "solution" available on the Web.

But simple? To Meg? Does not compute.

SO! Hello again!

I said that I would guest post for Eris while she's away (You are still away, aren't you? I'm imagining you trying to log in and being all HEY WHO IS USING MY BLOG and I'm all I AM AND I AM POSTING PORN and you are all HEY THAT'S FINE and I'm all OKAY, COOL), but I seem to have left it until Friday because of excessive deadline-age at work this week.

Which makes me a jerk.


I'm a jerk!

But I truly love Eris, so here goes:


1. Reveal their true identity. No one needs to know that Eris = Lindsay Lohan.

2. Reveal your true identity. No one needs to know that Meg = Meg. Oh. Wait.

3. Talk about how YOU would write this blog if YOU were in charge (hint: more nudity! Less clothing!)

4. Post 19 pictures of your cat. Especially since he died two years ago.

5. Talk about how Scientology has changed your life and hey, is anyone interested in joining? Couch jumping? Free plane ride with John Travolta? Free Jenny Craig buffet with Kirstie Alley?

6. Spam with links back to your own blog.

7. Share your personal 460-page manifesto for how the entire world should be reorganized into "countrettes" named after animals (I'm movin' to Zebra!)

8. Make fun of Eris's "clomp clomps." (She'll get it when she comes back.)

9. Five words: an interview with Paris Hilton.

10. Fucking swear because you don't normally fucking swear at your own fucking blog.

Eris, come back soon.

I suck at this.

But before I go, a haiku for your vacation:

so cal can be warm
but not as warm as your heart
or as dry, either.


Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Fuck Fuck Fuckiting Fuckity Fuck-Fuck

(Taking my guestblogging responsibilities seriously. Also known as shameless self-promotion.)

So there’s this awesome little ratings generator I found a while back thanks to yet another anonymous blogger. There are so many of you out there. I feel astonishingly unfashionable, what with being onymous and all. (That is the opposite of anonymous, yes?)

Anyhow, this generator rates your blog as if it was a movie. Because I am competitive beyond all reason, I decided to go head to head with Eris to see who was the bigger badass. I am so sorry I did.

Behold the rating for

Online Dating

“What the fuck?” was my very first question, pretty much assuring that I don’t really deserve the Goody-Goody G rating. But I was horrified to discover I apparently no longer swear like a sailor. (Personally, I blame teaching. Clean up your language in one place, it comes back to bite you in the ass.) According to the website, I qualified for my Pollyanna status because I had only one questionable term, ”bitches”, which comes from the link to Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Novels that resides in my sidebar. Only one curse on my entire home page, and I can’t even really count it as mine. Do you have any idea how much that sucks? Huge, hairy donkey cock is what it sucks.

Of course, you’re all wondering about Eris, aren’t you? So was I. And I was completely disgusted with the result:

Online Dating

I think I hate her just a little bit right now. Bitch. Good thing she’s on vacation.

Anyway, here’s me, doing my part to make sure that by the time she’s home, Eris’ blog has an X-rating. (As long as I don’t have to post naked pictures of m’self. That’d drive people away for sure.)

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

No Pressure Here

What have I gotten myself into? I heart me some Eris, so if she did ask nicely for me to come to her hellacious workplace and pull some asskickery out of my back pocket, I probably would. Thankfully, she hasn't. Yet.

Instead we've been charged with guest blogging/funny style. Oh sweet sallie mae. WHY WHY WHY?

When I told my husband about this, he reminded me that "it's kind of like substitute teaching...and that went well for ya." Snark. And walked away.


Student teaching (wavey lines indicating I'm thinking back to my most painful past... you can even make the Wayne & Garth sound effects if ya want), yeah that seemed like a good idea when my friend (a teacher) suggested it as a means to make money during grad school.

What could possibly go wrong? Well, let's review:

1. I don't much like teenagers.
2. I'm not too familiar with things like "poorly organized high schools and their humungous maze of identical hallways."
3. NO ONE WILL HAVE CHANGE FOR A $20 BILL SO I WILL STARVE TO DEATH BECAUSE HELLLL NO I'm not going to try and find the cafeteria, buy some lunch lady special and eat it in the 35 minutes I have for lunch.
4. Because during that incredibly small window of time called "lunch," I'm going to need to find the staff bathroom. Using the students' bathroom? So not ideal. I can't even go there.
5. And I forgot to bring snacks. OOoooh the snacks.
6. I'm not very good at snappy comebacks that don't include obscenities.
7. I should probably not even acknowledge snarky comments by said teenagers.

And this list quickly surfaced before I'd even been in an enclosed classroom in front of students. The high schoolers? Most weren't terrible, but as with most things and people, you really only remember and talk about the ones who drove you nuts.

In one classroom, I had instructions to write their in-class assignment on the blackboard and let them go to it. I can handle that! Where's that chalk? No, really. Where's the chalk? Am I suppose to write in my own blood?

Aside from the snarky comments (girls) and inability to plant their butts firmly (or even lightly, I don't care) onto the seats (boys), the high schoolers weren't nearly as bad as the middle schoolers.

On my third (and final) gig as a substitute teacher, I spent the longest day of my life at a middle school. With 5th and 6th graders.

"I was that age. I'm sure I was an angel at that age. This should be fun!" I stupidly, stupidly, STUPIDLY thought to myself as I headed into the school.

Oh dear lord...what a nightmare. A nightmare. I swear, these kids were larger, LOUDER and crazier than the high schoolers. Just getting through reading roll took like 17 minutes, but how was I to know that some crabby lady from the main office stops by 3 minutes after the bell rings to find out who is absent. I'm still on the "Bs" lady!

One large and angry gem, by the time I got to her name, assisted me by yelling "MY NAME IS SHAKEEEESHA NOT SHAKAHSHA SO DON'T EVEN SAY IT WRONG BECAUSE...YELL YELL YELL THREATEN THREATEN BEAT DOWN YELL YELL." Ok, so thank you Shakeesha. Present! Next, onto...the activity.

On this day, I was substituting for a music class where the BRILLIANT teacher had chosen to show these budding culturistas (and os) Broadway musicals, such as "Into the Woods." Who here as seen into the woods?

Welllll let me fill ya in if you haven't seen it (I hadn't either, so I was as shock and awed as the students), it's a take on the nursery rhymes, and I was asked to start the DVD at Chapter X which featured the Big Bad Fully Developed Balls Out Huge WolfSword Wolf. Serious Wolf Dickage allll over the next like forEVER which, naturally, the kids took really well.

The two little buttkissers in the front row (obviously, my favorites) just kind of traded glances while the horned up jackelopes in the back were all snickering and wondering aloud and YES, YES THAT IS A WOLF'S BIG OL' PENIS.

At least the affectionate girls in the back who would NOT get off this other boy's lap (oh you think I'm kidding? I'm not.) stopped dry humping to see the wolf dick. Seriously. Mayhem.

Horrendous. Now I know why the teacher couldn't make it in today.

That class overall taught me how terrible I am at discipling and sticking to my threats (I'm going to have to write you up, Janeece, if you don't stop trying to get onto the internet PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEAT, JANEECE Thank you Janeece? Do you want me to write you up? Do not log onto the internet. No, your teacher does NOT allow you to do this during class. No. No. No. No. What is your last name? Thank you. Janeece! and on...).

But it ended eventually, and I met the teacher who uses the room after that class. His words of advice (did he notice my state of shock and fear?): "I just think of middle school as a holding cell."

Um, I'm not sure that's the best way to frame what you do and who these kids are. Mind you, I'm a terrible substitute teacher, and I will NEVER be a teacher, buta holding cell? Ouch. I mean, I kind of understand, but that's no way get through the day.

After the Warden's class, I had to use that same classroom again and (oh sweet sucklin' baby J noooo) show the video again. When I moved the video cart next to the desk, as I had before, guess what I did? Oh just guess.

Yes, I somehow pulled the DVD player off of the cart and CRASH. Then it began...

"oooooooooooooooooh the substitute broke the DVD player"
"ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh she's in trou-bull....."
(repeat...add in some swear words...)

But at least I didn't have to watch the wolf penis again.

Sorry, Eris; but can I thank you for this most therapeutic outlet?

Monday, June 25, 2007

The Pressure

I think my head's going to explode from it.

Wow. What a sweet introduction. Yay. I get to try to live up to that.

Hi everybody.


OOH! Yes! HI! You in the back! Oh. Sorry. You're here for the other show. Right. Well, I'll be done shortly.




That would be the sound of me choking.

Well, no time like the present. Taking the bull by the horns. Etc.

(cue music)

For my first guest artist entry, I bring you...

(Dons beret, black turtleneck, nerd glasses)


Enlarge Your P3NIS!!!
From Damocles Eakin. Great!
But I don’t have one.

Need CC# to claim.

(Yes, I know it doesn’t fit. You want to get picky? You come up here and do this fucking job. It isn’t easy, living up to Eris.)

What the fuck? Ah, she’s from Gha-
Na. Note smells phishy

Yeah, I know. Weak weak weak. Hey. It’s early. I have a high school mask workshop to plan. And a garden to weed and an office to move into and a rug to weave and a window to paint and… Sweet Jesus, I need a maid. And a secretary. And about six other sexist women-limiting assistants. A laundress and a cook and…

(Giant hook drags Sallyacious off stage. Head emerges from wings to add)

And I’ll come back when I’m not trying so hard.

(Blows kisses as hook drags her back out of sight.)

-- -- -- by Sallyacious

Friday, June 22, 2007

Meet Your Guest Bloggers!

Three! Three people actually volunteered to do my dirty work while I am on vacation. That is approximately three more people than will even touch my actual job related work while I am gone, unless they all want to fly in and do that too, but I think the chore of guest blogging is more than enough.

Thank you!

As an element of surprise, or perhaps my lack of time to coordinate, you will have to check in daily to see when/if someone posted.

The participants are, in order of their volunteering but not possible posting:

An East coast cutie with an adorable son, a penchant for tree rodents, love of donuts and an understanding of my deep love for Desmond on lost; the enchanting miss Hollowsquirrel. I really hope this gig doesn't drive her web traffic down.

Talented actress, photographer, teacher, dedicated aunt and mother to a one eyed pirate cat who lives in picturesque rural Idaho (you should be visiting this site); the benevolent and lovely miss Sallyacious. What part of one eyed pirate cat does not intrigue you?

A prolific and honest Canadian blogger who has won actual blogging awards, rides the bus to work while drinking gallon sized coffees and celebrates Christmas approximately eight months out of the year (tree and all) the verbose miss Meg Fowler. Did I mention prolific? Seriously, prolifically prolific. I think she may write in her sleep just to keep us updated.

Exta points will be handed out for percieved drunkeness and f-word permutations.

I can't wait!

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Several Things:

Who wants to be a guestblogger? Anyone? Hello?

I am taking a real, live, honest to goodness vacation in a beautiful California city for an entire week! Yes! You heard me! But Eris, you may say, how is this possible? What with work and you being penniless and such? About a month ago work was kind enough to show up with six blackberries and hand them to me with a blank look on their face. Having never built a blackberry exchange server in my life much less never having touched a blackberry I spent the next three weeks alternating between panic and rage as I set up a company wide communication system with nothing but my wiles and google to help me through.

Note: I was never, ever a fan of the dickheads at Cingular who do nothing but fuck around their customers and could give a shit if you leave because someone will just take your place (fewest dropped calls my ASS) but they earned even more points by being the biggest asswad monkeyfuckers ever by offering absolutely no support or help when it comes to setting up a corporate account. The sales people are all up on you with promises of tech support and in-person assistance until you sign on the dotted line and then *poof* they vanish into the night like Hilary's southern accent in the North. Naturally I was not kept in the loop regarding the purchase of said mobile devices, what with me being the fucking head of the IT department and all, no one felt it was necessary to clue me in. No, they just dumped it all in my lap one day with the attitude that I would wave a magic wand and it would be done.

If I could sue my company for the development of tenosynovitis and far-sited vision I would. If I could personally strangle each and every employee of Cingular with my bare, albeit crippled, hands I would. If I could just get the motherfucking blackberries to sync with the goddamn outlook addresses I would.

What does all this rambling mean to me and my vacation? It means that work can email and call and text me anytime with my new POS blackberry 8800 and therefore any stupid dumbfuck thing they do while I am away can now be amended by contacting me via the powers of technology. I would be grateful except: A) remember the whole tenosynovitis thing? I wear braces for it and take heavy duty anti-inflamitories and it is still AGONY to type on those twee little buttons, not to mention the farsightedness I developed from starting at a computer screen 14 hours a day now means that I need to hold the blackberry two inches from my nose to see the screen and B) these people actually expect me to be checking this thing seven days a week, 24 hours a day. Son of a bitch. Hence I can take a real vacation after two years of toiling in one of hell's outer dungeons. Think of it not so much as a vacation but as a way for work to torture me while I am trying to drink my memories away on the beach.

I think I can actually post from the blackberry but I am not about to use company equipment for my personal use. Hell, if I were cool with that I would have taken to selling off office furniture and dry goods on the black market to supplement my paltry salary.

I will not likely be able to post for a week starting Saturday June 23 through Sunday July 01. I do not want the *new* blog to wilt listlessly away while I am trying to smother the incessant ringing of the blackberry to death under a pillow in my super posh (read: ghetto) hotel room. Is there anyone who would like to volunteer? Actually, I would love it if anyone on my blogroll volunteered, and there are a few of you who hold a very special place in my heart, but I understand what it is to be busy. I don't want to dump obligation on someone if they can't or don't want to do it. Luckily there isn't too much pressure, I mean, it is not as though I have set a standard of excellence that is currently unreachable, unless you could manage to use more vulgar swearing in your post than me, monkeyfuckers.

So, just let me know. I am for chatting or email. You can also mention your burning desire to do my work and post for me in the comments and I will email you my login id and password to blogger, providing, of course, that you don't give away my seeeeeecret identity. Please don't violate my trust. I will throw my blackberry at you.

Mad art skillz

These are my imaginary internet friends. In order that is Sallyacious, Maya, Chollyson and Hollowsquirrel. You could be my imaginery internet friend too, see, I left a space for you. Also note the details like my short 5'2" stature, the addition of my wrist braces for tenosynovitis and the sexy rolls I picked up in the bottom of a nacho cheese tub.

Has someone discovered paint on their computer? I think so.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007


As provided to me by the lovely Sallyacious. Thank you!

Is there a 12 step for Nacho Cheese?

Conversation with self:

Me: I hate my job
Me: I know, shut up about it already. Hating it isn’t doing anything.
Me: These people are purposefully trying to make me crazy
Me: I can’t handle it anymore, I'm going to snap
Me: Where can I find a job, any other job, at all, I don’t care, RIGHT NOW
Me: I could try temping
Me: Fuck, temping in this city would cut my current salary by more than fifty percent
Me: Is the economy bad or am I insane?
Me: Well, I’m insane, always
Me: I hate my job
Me: I’ve been really good all week! I want Taco Bell! Nacho cheese!
Me: It is Wednesday. This has not been even close to a full week.
Me: Eat your damn healthy lunch
Me: This has been shit week from hell preceded by shit month from hell preceded by holy mother of gob how did my life wind up being so horrible?
Me: NO NO NO NONONONONO I am so close to being under 120 pounds, just one more month! You can do it!
Me: *wimpering* Nacho cheese? Please?
Me: One stupid plate of Taco Bell Nachos has nearly 1000 calories, and you can eat three of those in one sitting. No Nacho Cheese for you.
Me: Fuck it. I deserve Nacho Cheese. I work hard. My week has been horrible. I showed up to work today. I worked out yesterday. Shut up and eat the damn delicious Nacho Cheese and be filled with joy.
Me: I hate my job
Me: You could be under 120 lbs if you didn’t eat the Nacho Cheese
Me: Imagine the cuteness, imagine the happiness of fitting into your clothes again
Me: Fuck cuteness. I hate cuteness. I want Nacho Cheese.
Me: Gobdamnit. Maybe it is time for hypnotherapy.
Me: EWWWWWWWWW google image search for Nacho Cheese brings up some of the most horrific, unthinkable images ever. What the hell?
Me: Healthy lunch it is.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Just another manic Tuesday

My Day:

7am work
8am work
9am leave for memorial in city two hours away
10am drive
11am memorial
12pm memorial
12:11 pm lose it when I see a picture of myself and the passed smiling like idiots at the fifth grade picnic
12:30 pm give my condolences
12:45 pm start drive back to city I live in
1pm cry in car
2pm melt in 104 degree weather in black pant business suit because I don't have air conditioning in my car
2:30 pm get back to work
3pm work
4pm work
5pm work
6pm work
7pm work(probably)

But hey, at least work is being understanding. They'll let me make up the time I missed by working overtime. Fresh overtime. They won't let me pull from the hours and hours of accrued overtime I already have but they will let me work NEW overtime to make up for my five hour gap.

All that being said? I'm really, very glad that I got to go.

If there is anything after death I hope that he is enjoying it.

Monday, June 18, 2007

I don't understand

Tomorrow is the memorial for the first boy I ever held hands with.

Expanding my Horizons

I just received "How to Win Friends & Influence People" by Dale Carnegie in the mail. I ordered it from a thrift site a few weeks ago for like $4.00 including shipping.

That's right bitches, Eris is gonna learn how to win people over and then influence them! Muah ah ahhhhhhh, no good can come of this.

I hope it at least keeps me entertained for a day or two.

Major props to the person who can best nail what "advice" this book will give. I'm thinking "be nice to people" and "smile?"

If you catch me reading "The Secret" just put me out of my misery.

All things static

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

I hate my job.

And the fucked up thing is? I can't get another one to save my life.

Fuckity fuck fuck.



I inhaled a small chocolate and some animal crackers and suddenly I feel a bit better. It is not good that food has such an effect for me but hey, at least I haven’t stormed out of the office screaming “To hell with you mother fuckers!” with absolutely no job prospects, near to nothing in the bank and no way to pay my rent next month. If some empty calories manage to do that then FINE, I guess I will be 15 pounds overweight for the rest of my life.

To recap:

I have applied for about a million (okay, 30) jobs in the last three months. I have been turned down for being under-qualified, which, okay; overqualified, which, BULLSHIT, when the hell is anyone ever over-qualified to be making more money? WHEN I ask of you oh smart internets? I have been turned down for not having enough experience even though I was the “perfect” candidate. The most heart wrenching is the most recent which literally brought me to tears: After going through a mass group test and then a total three day interview process they pushed the job recruitment back three months. Then they sent me an email with good news saying that the job would be hiring sooner than they thought. Then they sent me an email saying that due to budget issues the position was being eliminated and they were not hiring. Son of a bitch. It is a week later and I still haven’t recovered. I came up with FOUR good excuses to duck out of my current job, took a stupid test about my drug use and co-worker relations, met with seven different people over a span of two months and got, as the vernacular goes, royally fucked over. I don’t even know what to do. I am beside myself.

Out of about thirty jobs in three months I am down to one. One freaking job. It is a state job and when I tested for it there were about 50 other applicants for one open position. This is a bottom of the barrel job that I applied for out of desperation after the first time I was told I was “over qualified.” We’ll see if I even hear back, but I tell you, I have absolutely no expectations. This is the end. I know that finding a job is hard for everyone right now and that I am lucky to even have this position: I need to learn to be grateful for what I have. So that, I guess, is the question. How to I feel grateful when all I feel like is crying? That isn’t rhetorical, I’m not kidding. Since I can’t get a new job how do I feel truly lucky to have the one I’ve got? And how do I do that without breaking down in a fit of rage over how screwed up this all is? Or, in the very least, how do I keep myself from inhaling the tub of animal crackers in my office?

Gah. You’re all excited I’m back and all you get is poorly written bitching about my shitty job. Sorry.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Clothing Tags

You know when you’re walking around all day and the tag in the back of your pants is poking you? So naturally you find yourself absent mindedly walking down the hall with your hand in the back of your pants, protecting the square of booty that is being rubbed raw, and not thinking about how this must look? And then you walk by the CEO? With your hand in your pants?


I’m sure you all know exactly what I’m talking about.

If men’s undershirts and women’s underwear is now going tagless why can’t this be a whole revolution? Let’s face it, I buy my clothes from the Old Navy discount bin. I don’t care whether they have a tag or not so long as they cost under $3.00 and cover whatever it is they are supposed to cover. I am not looking to impress people here. The only purpose I see a tag serving is to tell you the size and the manufacturer. Even then the size thing is pretty much bunk because if I’m a size eight in one store I am inevitably a size 00 in another store and heaven knows what European size I am because I swear those make no rational sense at all. It I have a 32 inch waste how does that make me a size 43/22.836? HOW? Is my size determined by an algorithm in Europe? Do I have to calculate the cosine of the ratios of my limbs? Is Europe secretly making fun of the American School systems this way? I understand falling in a range between, say, six and eight, but eight and negative zero? The hell? Most days I feel like fashioning a stylish and comfortable ensemble out of my bed sheets and duct tape, but that probably has more do to with my deep heart felt hatred for current fashion than it does for my loathing of size differences and poky tags.

So if size is a mute point what about the manufacturer? We have determined that I will wear anything that covers me and is comfortable, and I certainly don’t have money for frivolous things like designer clothing, cable television, internet at home, food, healthcare or other luxuries. I would imagine that the only time one would have a desire to advertise the manufacturer of their clothing would be when said clothing was Gucci. Or Prada. Or JC Penney’s. If you spend $1000.00 on a pair of white Dolce and Gabbana jeans why would they hide this fact on a tag? I would want it splayed across my ass is huge letters so as to let people know that starvation and wars be damned, I chose to spend my money of fugly white jeans from a talentless designer.*

Then again, I am not rich, and I am of the knowledge that there is actually this sort of understood yet not stated paradigm where if you do spend the income of Guam on your shirt you do not advertise it; people are just supposed to know. That is what separates folks like me from the rich; both the time to know every piece in every collection and the ability to then recognize and price it on one of your trust fund coke-monkey friends. Again, why would a tag even be necessary? If you can’t advertise that you spent shitloads of moolah on your ass ugly dress and must rely on other shallow dipwads to identify it on sight so that you can maintain your superior society then why tag it at all? Are the rich not human? If you prick them with an itchy tag do they not demand that their body guard find them another outfit and some sweet sweet nose candy right now or their ass is on the line?

Tagless is a brilliant idea. If you must tell me who made my pants then by all means print it on the waste band. Hell, give a sharpie to the Taiwanese four year old so that he can sign the piece himself using whatever limb is left. I don’t need something poking my delicate skin all day long, and I especially don’t need it bound to the fabric so tight that I would have to cut a square out of the garment simply to be rid of the tag. If men’s undershirts can do away with tags then I say it can be done, should be done, and will be done.

Let the revolution begin.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I am off to take a pair of scissors into the restroom so that the next time the CEO catches me with my hand down my pants there will be a much more thrilling reason.

*And why this particular example you may ask? I recently tried on a pair of heinous white Dolce and Gabbana jeans when I was in Las Vegas. Two things: White jeans are of Satan no matter who made them and Las Vegas is the most over-rated hell hole on earth. Do yourself a favor: Set fire to your money if you aspire to either of these things. Then kill yourself, because white designer $1000.00 jeans and the stupidest city on earth? We don’t need you on our planet.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Blog Names

Blog names I wanted that were taken:

Nome de plume
Nope not me
Destination Unknown
Road to Nowhere
Leave me the hell alone stalker ex-boyfriend or I’ll call your boss and get a restraining order
Seriously not me
It isn’t me
Not who you think
Hiding behind anonymity

I tried a few others but I can’t remember what they were. Do you like the one I chose?

The universe?

It likes to fuck with me.

Note the pathetic post below where I mention that I am not doing so well and none of my old friends like me. I randomly got an email today from someone I really love(d) that I haven't heard from in over a year. Never mind that said person was IN MY CITY a year ago, which I knew about, for over a week and was too busy to even freaking meet up for coffee and never mind that even after fucked up situation I still tried to keep in touch yet they ignored me and never mind that every time before that when we hung out I put in all the effort/driving time and trouble to see them; hey, at least they emailed.

It is a miracle.

Now they want to know how I am and that they will be in a city 5 hours away in July during the work week and wouldn't it be wonderful it I could drive all that way to see them?

Shit people, forget part of the misery of below post, I now remember why I'm not in contact with these people anyway. They are bastards and assholes and inconsiderate fucks.

I much prefer my internet friends.

Have I said yet how much I missed you?

Because I really, really missed you.

And the one friend from below post is doing okay, it is hard, but she is okay.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Ever have the week where

Your can breaks down and winds up costing you $600.00 you absolutely, in no way, shape, manner or form had?

You get news that a job you had been literally praying for, took the recruitment test for, and have thought about every day for over a month, has lost funding and therefore won’t be hiring?

You realize that you are down to less than a handful of friends and you truly have no idea how pathetic or stupid you could have been to get there? I mean, after awhile you can only blame so much on people just drifting before you begin to realize that maybe there is something horribly, massively, wretchedly wrong with you.

You hit the wall of depression so bad it is all you can do to make it home from work and sit on your couch for five hours every night until it is time for bed?

And then

One of the few friends left informs you of her miscarriage

What are you supposed to do?

Same Exact....

Same Exact Blogger; Different Blog.

Same Exact Problems; No Perspective.

Same Exact Goals; Absolutely No Progress.

Same Exact City; No Signs of Escape on the Horizon.

Same Exact Nonsense; Same Amount of Cussing.

Same Exact Shitty Job; No Prospects At All.

Same Exact Everything Except Now Three Months Older!

It really is good to be back.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Who says people never come back from extended blog vacations?