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!!