Note to people who borrow my stapler: if you are all the way on my side of the office and you suddenly find yourself in need of a stapler and you ask to use mine - I am doing you a favor. Therefore, you have absolutely no fucking right to complain about how it functions. If it sticks or otherwise does not work to your liking – do not bitch about it for five minutes and waste my time. Do not tell me what a piece of junk it is as you try to pull the crooked staple from your document. It was a piece of junk last time you borrowed it and bitched about it for a full five minutes. Guess what? It’s still a piece of junk, but it is my piece of junk and it serves my purposes just fine so if you don’t like it, do not ask repeatedly to borrow it; walk your lazy ass back to your desk and use your own damn stapler next time. Ok? Great. Thanks.
Oh, and while I have your attention ungrateful stapler-person, no, I do not have a pen/post-it/highlighter/calculator/three-headed-dildo you can borrow.
My kingdom for a door! O lovely door!
If this shit keeps up I am going to figure out a way to fashion a hinge of some sort so I can hang some super-groovy Mike-Brady’s-Den-turned-Greg-Brady-Bachelor-Pad beads to hang in the little door cube. That way I could at least hear the obnoxious people coming.
It’s either that or I line the walls with barbed wire.
I am only half kidding.
I know, it's sad, my life as an Office Space Caricature.
But what can you do? It’s a dark and rainy day here in Chicagoland. I’m in a funk. I am allowed a funk!
Though, I am guessing listening to Louder Than Bombs, on like, repeat isn’t doing much to remedy the situation. Actually, rainy or not, there’s kind of a dark cloud over the cube today as Matt and I are in a collective foul mood all the while listening to some mopey-ass music. Me: The Smiths. He: Morissey.
Yeah, I know, potato-potah-toe it’s a cacophony of self-indulgent misery someone called suicide watch blah blah blah.
Wow, I had no idea I was in such a foul mood. Sorry about that, but you know, it’s been on my mind.
I wasn’t really planning on talking about all that, what I wanted to talk about was Monday, which I know has you thinking, “Hellllo, it’s like a new weekend for crying out loud, ann-frank! Monday was like, days ago, and you just can’t fuck with the delicate diaryland space-time continuum like that, you know, If you wanted to talk about Monday maybe perhaps you should have like, gotten off your lazy ass, oh, I don’t know – last Tuesday and maybe written a little something down. We don’t care about Monday, man. That’s like, soooo five days ago.”
To which I say, you are right. But damnit, I’ll write about last Monday or last month or when I was 15 or 1975 if I damn well please! This is my diary!
And then you’ll be all, “well sure, if you want to live in the past that’s all fine and good, but we’re a little more forward thinking here, you know. We’ve got a fun weekend to look forward to, not like your crusty last Monday stories fer chrissakes.”
And then I’ll say, “well sure, I would have gotten to it all earlier this week but I was a little busy and I am now just getting to it if you don’t mind.”
And then you’re all “fine, whatever. How the hell was your Monday, already? Let’s get this over with.”
And then so I will tell you, “fine thanks. The LeTigre show was really really really good, and I had a great time, is all. I just wanted you to know.”
And you’ll answer, “sheesh, is that all?”
And I’ll say, “yes, it is. And now that we’ve kissed and made up, meet me at the corner bar in ten minutes, I am thirsty and I want to tell you about Tuesday - P-B-R me A-S-A-P! *”
* remember that marketing genius? No? Yeah, that’s ‘cause it never really caught on, but I think it’s terribly funny. I guess I am the only one.
p.s. happy birthday, mom!!