An Ode to Drama

To start out, as a pseudo-pretentious college English major, I love drama. I love Miller and Havel and Beckett and Churchill. I love Varun Begley's classes on drama. I can talk about drama without seeming too overly stupid. I love wriiting about drama. I love experimental drama, realist drama, naturalist drama, the theater of the absurd. I love drama.

However, my love for drama ends when that drama leaves the theater or classroom and takes root in the low-wage workplace. I hate, and I mean HATE, drama-queen drama, the kind of drama that emerges from the minds of the pitiful, witless beings whose daily existence is so wed to their lives as checkout girls and such that they create horrific spectacle out the most mundane mistakes. I hate yelling and backbiting and bitching and moaning and idle threats. This behavior does nothing, nothing at all, and I can't stand pointless things (in my mind, this kind of drama is closely affiliated with decaf espresso, non-alcoholic beer and Anne Rice novels--I mean, what's the point with any of it?). Here's the thing: We all have pointless, stupid, corporate jobs. We all know this. We don't need crazy shit going on. So if you're going to go apeshit crazy over stupid stuff and talk back to people and then storm out of afforementioned low-wage job with more drama than a Nathan Lane productioin, then to hell with you. You waste my time.

And another thing: a quick primer to "storming out", written by a Southern woman, and thus an expert on the practice. "Storming out" is to only be done in situations where love is involved, as demonstrated in the following handy-dandy list:
Reasons to "Storm Out"
1. He slept with your best friend.
2. He slept with your brother.
3. You just found out he's got no job, massive credit card debt, and is more Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force than Ewan McGregor from Moulin Rouge.
4. You just found out he's Kevin Federline, and thus cannot tie his shoes.
5. You are from a large Southern family with a crazy aunt who says things without thinking, especially after she has a few gin and tonics.
These are the only, and I repeat only, reasons to make a dramatic exit (ok, there are a few more, but the reason has to include love, sex, family or some combination of the three). "Storming out" cannot be done properly in the workplace because the proper emotions are not available (unless, of course, you're screwing a co-worker, who is also screwing your brother, but that's a special sitch). If you are not experiencing any of these, don't storm out. Leave quietly with your head held high, and then discreetly flip the bird to anyone who might be watching when you are in the parking lot. All smart Southern girls know this. If done correctly, "storming out" results in a quick "Wait, dear, come back. Let's talk about this," or a following. If it doesn't, you didn't do it right. Also, post-storming out sex is the best you can have. I swear it.

So what have we learned today? We have learned that drama has no place in the low wage workplace, and that done correctly, "storming out" can lead to a quick reconciliation, massive child support payments, or great sex. It is not to be used lightly, and its power is not to be understated. Moreover, we have learned that any drama and unauthorized usage of storming guarantees immediate ostracization from the group. Ha ha. Sucker.

Country Roads, Take Me Home

The countdown is on. In just three days, I will be going back home for a short vacation before school starts again, something that I have been waiting for since around July 4. I am so excited, I can't hardly stand it. I actually found myself wanting to pack this morning after just talking to my mother, who is actually going to come up here and pick me up so I won't have to make the journey by myself (it's an 8 hour trip, and not very fun unless you have someone with you). In fact, I did get out a bag and threw some underwear in it, just for my own sake.

I have been so homesick of late that I haven't been able to stand it. This is especially odd if you know me. When I left home to come to school three years ago, I swore that I would never come back, except for major holidays and the like. And I've pretty much kept that promise. I haven't gone back since Christmas of last year. Even then, I went back with reservations. I remember rolling into town on Thanksgiving of my freshman year, which was in fact the first time I went home after living in Williamsburg for nearly three months, and thinking, "God, I want to go back to Williamsburg. This is such a wasteland." And the truth is, home really is a wasteland. It's impoverished, the once lively mining towns have gone to crap, some of the mountains have been lopped off because of strip mining, and lots of people just wander around, not really knowing what to do. There's nothing to do, you have to drive an hour just to get to a crappy mall and movie theater, the only restaurants worth mentioning are big chain outfits circling the crappy mall and movie theater. However, I have realized in my old age, that it actually has a lot going for it. People there are nice, they smile, the word latte is not included in their lexicon, and truly, they have never met a stranger. They know where they're from and they're proud of it. They know that there is much more to life than SUV's and golf courses and retirement plans. And they're happy. What's more, the land at home is beautiful. There are big, majestic mountains with trees and animals and such. In short, it's great. Really great.

The truth is, I don't just want to go there for five days or so. I want to go and stay. In fact, if I didn't just have one more year in school, I probably would. I can't stand it here anymore. Everything is so fake, and just generally wrong. People are just so ungenuine and nobody has any clue about who they are or where they came from. To the average Williamsburg resident, who you are is almost totally identified by what you own. It is miserable. The only thing that keeps me going are the few lovely friends I have made here and my times with them. If it weren't for that, I probably would have packed up long ago, degree or no degree.

Well, ho hum. Now I'm morose. I'm sorry to be so down on the 'burg. It's just how I feel. I know that I'm probably putting a bit of a romantic spin on my home, but really, I'm telling you, if you want to be somewhere that's a little bit dififerent, somewhere that hasn't been totally taken over by the capitalist mentality, southwest VA is your best bet. Perhaps it's the lone holdout for good old American common sense. How sad is that?

Make Way for the Crazy Train! Whoo Whoo!

As an official spokesman for the Books A Million Company, I must say that last night proved to be the most exhausting, craziest, most emotionally daunting night on record. Why? Because there were CRAZY people in the store. CRAZY I tell you! CRAZY! Allow me to explain.

Using a handy list format, allow me to illustrate the kind of people who were in the store last night, in order of craziness:
1. Sketch guy using a stolen credit card to buy $300 worth of hardback bestsellers, leaving when said card was declined and hopping on small bicycle
2. Lady in purple jogging suit looking for a "big" birthday card for her dog
3. Small group of 12-year-old blondes drinking espresso drinks that their parents think are decaf which, in fact, are not
4. Crazy cell phone woman talking loudly into a phone that has a classical music ringer that not only rings every 5 to 6 seconds, but is roughly two decibals louder than a jet engine
5. Four crazy Books-A-Million associates, labeled the Hot-Girl Crew by some, thinking how cool it would be if we had CB radios (Breaker, breaker 1-9, this is Coffee Cup, I'm gonna need the Mutant up in the cafe for a little foaming action. Do you read?)

And yes, this was my night. It was crowded, it was loud, and I had the giggles. I came home covered in chocolate because of chocolate pump explosion and looking as if I lactate coffee because of clumsy spillage. And I was exhausted. I have to say I had the best non-sex related sleep I've ever had last night, so good in fact, that it was better than some of the sex that I've had. It was almost worth having the crazy night just to get the sleep. And now I'm off, ready for a day of action. I am actually going to Newport News tonight to do a bit of shopping and go out to eat. I am cool. And it looks like I'm going to have some money coming my way because of some long lost savings bonds my parents just found and are going to cash in. God bless 'em! So I am actually really cool right now, so cool you don't even know. Feel jealous reader. Feel very jealous.

Well, I should go. I am going to finish Olivia Joules before I go out, which should be fun and entertaining. Then I'm going to get ready. It will be good. Oh so good. Like sleep. And stolen credit cards. And foaming action (he he).

Midget Priests who Like the Sauce (If you don't get it, you suck)

Today in an effort to show how un-moaning and bitchy I am, I'm going to type everything using exclamation points! Isn't that fun! See?! I'm not evil! I'm not morose! I'm giddy, spritely, fun and lovable! You loooooove me!

Ok, so that's getting on my nerves. (!) In truth, while I'm not jumping off of the walls today, I am feeling at least a little better as I ate some sodium infused frozen dinner last night, kept it down, and actually enjoyed it. Yea for progress! My body is still racked by this dull ache that seems to have developed its own small subdivision in my lower neck and back, but it's nothing that a restful day in front of the tube won't help, or quite possibly, cure. So here I am, taking a well-needed respite from the "Awesomely Bad" line of programming on VH1, and telling you about it. Don't you feel special?

I have to work tonight, but I have tomorrow off, and work a mid on Saturday so two nights in a row will belong to me, and me alone. I am wondering what mischief I will try to get in on those nights. I am actually thinking of going shopping on Friday (probably just to Target or something) as my darling mother deposited some money in my account, and well, I'm a Southern Woman and spending money is just what I do. I haven't done it in a while, but I think I'm just about ripe for the occasion. Or I could stay home and read and work on some writing. Or I could bake a cheesecake. The options are limitless.

So before I retire into the cushions on my couch, I will leave you with a handy-dandy pocket list of the things I have learned this week. Feel free to cut it out as it surely will help you out of many a jam:
1. Alcoholics are not reliable. Even recovering ones.
2. You should never stalk someone. They don't like it.
3. All VH1 programming is not created equal. Case in point: Man in the Mirror: The Michael Jackson story. Ew.
4. Eating 3 day old Japanese food will not make your stomach feel better, no matter how much soy sauce you put on it.
5. Singing Fiona Apple's Criminal in your car at full blast is scientifically proven to make you feel like a slut, a criminal, or a liberated woman with a penchant for good little boys and bad sex. Either/or.

Don't Put that There--Musings on Sickness and Bad writing

So yeah. I'm sick. I've got this very queasy feeling in my stomach, and all I want to do is lay around and drink carbonated sugar water (as opposed to any other time when all I want to do is lay around and drink mai tais). I feel gross. Just gross. No better way to say it.

However, I shall persevere, because gosh darn it, I'm from the south, and that's just what we do. We have lived through wars, humidity and Burt Reynolds movies, so I'll assume I'll make it through this. Besides, I have to go to work tonight, so I best be getting better soon, and I mean soon. With the help of a chubby stick of blush I just bought and some lip gloss, I will be back in the cafe, looking as normal and totally unsick as possible. Oh well. Goal for the day: looking like I have life in my body. And what a goal it is.

Just so you know (oh, great many people who actually read this), I'm not always sick and I don't always bitch. In fact, I get sick very, very rarely. I think working in the service industry has introduced my frail body to a host of pathogens that have invaded and rendered me into a fading flower. I once wrote an essay about women in 19th century American lit (basically in works by James and Wharton) being "too pure for this world" and illness, death and all that good stuff, and I am beginning to feel as if I am one of these beauties. I am too pure for the Williamsburg bookstore circuit, as I have not yet sold my soul to the gods of capitalism and profit. I may soon fade into my bed, where I will wear a white dressing gown and will be waited on by a few loyal servants who will feed me soup and listen to all the witty things I have to say. It is sad that this seems preferable to present situation.

Speaking of capitalism, profit and evilness, the bookstore where I work has recently made a rule that if we don't push the discount card and sell so many in a week, we will be written up and ultimately, fired. So I am looking for another job, as termination for me, is fairly inevitable. I can't sell the damn things, not even if I want to. Take last night for instance. I sold one, and I was happy because it was such a rarity. Maybe it is because I am, as a rule, against stuffing pre-written speeches down people's throats when all they want to do is buy a flipping coffee and get the hell out. But I guess I will have to be for it, at least for the time that I have left. Oh well. So much for that. I will miss my lovely co-workers, but you know, it's life, and I'm sure lots of low-wage outlets will be willing to hire me for something. Or I could always start up that phone sex hotline that I've been dreaming of.

And now, one final word on writing. After having read a peer's writing that was (flippantly and rather stupidly) posted to a website, I must say that I feel better about prospective writing career. While I am not turning anything out at present, and should really not be proud of anything, I must say, my stuff is a tad better than ummm, we shall call her the Desert Queen. DQ (something different--he he) seems to think that good writing and preadolescent sexual fantasy are one in the same. And this person has a college degree. Disturbing? I think so. Listen people. If you want to write about sex, write about sex. Chances are, I'll read it. But don't waste my time if you don't know what you're talking about. If you can't tie in emotional bonds and throw something in that I haven't heard before, or if the words "Here's my homework" are involved, you're just going to piss me off. I have read about sex, gosh darn it, I have even had sex, so I don't want to know the in's and out's of the act (yes, the pun was intended). Give me more, and if you can't, go get a business degree and work for John Q. Corporation because you're wasting everyone's time. Mean? Yes. True? Oh hell yeah.

So on that note, I retire. Yes, I understand that I'm a bad person and that there are all sorts of comments that could be flung my way. Don't waste my time. I waste enough of it on my own (In the Heat of the Night, anyone?).

Food and sex...nothing better

'Ello love. Yesterday proved to be ok for a day off, even though I didn't get my car fixed, nor did I clean my apartment. So I am struggling to clean today, even managing to get up a bit early to do it. Nice huh? I thought so.

I am feeling a little better today, still a little worried about certain strange aspects of my health. Keep in mind that I'm not some crazy hypochondriac--I think that is why this is so strange to me. Oh well. I am sure I am fine, maybe just a bit stressed and a tired.

On the recommendations of a couple of friends, I started reading Olive Joules and the Overactive Imagination last night. I have to say that I love it, and this is odd for me as I usually read a different kind of literature. I am actually thinking of writing my own "chick lit" type of story, about the romantic misadventures of some poor soul. I actually think I could pull it off, as working in a retail job surrounded by the early (and late) twenties set has shown me the kind of craziness that I think such a literary endeavor could benefit from. I would just have to remember to make it an intelligent offering, and something that doesn't involve the color pink or the word Prada. Ho hum. It is something to think about, I guess.

I think that I will bake some brownies today for the pour souls at work who so enjoyed the cookies I made last time. Here is the strange thing about baking: once you do it once, you've got their hearts forever (or at least the weight of their hunger, but let's just go with "hearts" as it is more romantic and fun). In a strange (very strange) way, cooking for someone is like sex: you get to find out their likes and dislikes, what it takes to make them come...back for seconds (he he), and some other intimate knowledge that is undescribable in a way that true intimate knowledge is. In my experience, food preferences are like sexual preferences: if you like a lot of different foods, you are pretty willing to experiment, whereas those people who still just eat maccaroni and cheese straight from the box would be pretty boring (I'm only guessing here). Ok, after writing this, I don't know if I should go get a box of cereal or watch go rent Velvet Goldmine (again!).

Well, after that somewhat pornish offering, I shall go. I have lots to do before I go to work today, and in a stunning twist of fate, I may actually try to do them. Yea! Here's to courageousness! And making up words! Yea!

Ho hum. Monday morning again. I am off from work today, a stunning development in a life that is normally dominated by work. Too bad I have to spend at least some of it getting my car repaired as there are problems with the Southern Belle mobile, mostly to do with burned out lights. Oh well. I am off again on Friday--what will that day bring?

I had an interesting weekend to say the least. I joined the afforementioned John Kerry club, so I had a very informal "meeting" of that on Saturday at a local restaurant. It turned out very nice, and I can see myself doing a lot with this group. That night I went to my friend Kathleen's 21st birthday party. Very fun, if a bit quiet. I got to see one of my friends from work who has the reputation of being a regular loverboy in action, and another coworker wearing Johnny Depp-style eyeliner. My friend, the afforementioned Awesome Chick, got hopelessly and completely drunk, which was cute on her, as she is usually a pillar of purity and light. Being the cool person I am, I didn't drink much and stayed around to take her home, and then picked her back up for work on Sunday where she suffered from a totally wretched hangover. I think most people at work were amused by her demeanor both at the party and at work the next day.

I am somewhat nervous-like today, and I really don't know why except that my body is doing odd things lately, possibly due to the lack of a sensible diet and enough sleep. Oh, and the alcohol. I am thinking of giving that up, but I feel that I should do it in stages. I also feel a little lonely today, don't know why, just do. Maybe I am getting old. It is a distinct possibility, as lately, I have become more linked to the elderly (ha ha, Gramps!).

Well, I shall now go and see what I can get into. My apartment is messy, messy, messy so I am going to endeavor to clean it. It's going to be a hard job, but somebody has to do it, I guess. Then there is the car thing, which will require me driving to Newport News, which is not far but to me, seems like about five lightyears away. I would adore to go to the mall while I am there, but due to strenuous economic ties, I'll have to hold off this time. My dreams of becoming a fashionable, vain, and self-righteous woman will have to hold off at least until student loan money comes through and books are bought. Until then, I remain unfashionable, a little self-conscious, a bit too old for my age, but wholly and completely yours.

Lions, Tigers and Nazis! Oh My!

Strange night in the cafe last night. Actually more disturbing than strange. Allow me to explain (in whole formed sentences no less!). The cafe where yours truly toils away has become quite the meeting place for support groups, Weight Watchers, and what have you (even though that it is incredibly small and housed within a large corporate warehouse of a bookstore). Anywho, last night the biggest group that has ever graced us with its presence decides to show up. They are a group who is trying to elect John Kerry to president, so in other words, they represent smart, good people of the world, the yin to the country's collective yang. So they completely take over the place, moving all the tables around so they can be comfortably seated and stand up to hand out voting paraphanalia and such. It's really no big deal. I mean, they're a bit loud at first, but they are nice, and have good politics, so what the hell, right? Wrong. Some short man in a blue shirt and these weird granny reading glasses complains and says that they ain't got no right to do that and that he wants them thrown out of the store. My sweet manager (not my unvirginal love-cake known as Bob but rather my green party adherent honey cake known as Rebecca) informs him that this still is America and that they have every right to do whatever the hell they want to. Bastard does not take well to this and says that he is going to bring in a group of Nazis and let them meet in the cafe (which, I just thought, would be interesting given that one of my fellow baristas is a sardonic Jew fresh from a trip to Israel, who, I swear to God, could tear anyone I know to shreds just by utilizing his lightning fast wit). BUT ANYWAY, the jerk threatens and then leaves in a big ole huff after he realizes that we're just not going to do anything for him.

Which I gotta say, is interesting. I usually do not wax political on the ole blog, but I must make an exception to share this stunning political thought: conservatives are stupid. They get all worked up about nothing at all, and while they're busy getting worked up and thinking about what to do to all of us crazy liberals, they let one of their own go ape-shit crazy in the damn White House. Seriously, I think that if most of them would quit worrying about the size of Michael Moore's bank account or about any questions with John Kerry's military record, they would realize what a out and out little shit George Bush actually is. If Bill O'Reilly would stop screaming for about 4.3 seconds, he might see that he and his crones are turning this country into a festering hole of poverty and warmongering.

One more thing: What's the deal with the ole Nazi obsession? I, personally, am tired of Nazis. The damn History Channel might as well be the 24 Hour Nazi-A-Thon as everytime I turn on the TV, that's what's on. If you want to win an Academy Award, you always go for the Nazis (I want to think the Third Reich for giving me the opportunity to play this role...oh, and the Academy). And the number one curse thrown on anyone if they step just one inch out of the political middle (either to the right or the left) is "NAZI!" Is this wierd? I think so. Suddenly Michael Moore is a Nazi (if you don't believe me, check out the IMDB message boards) because he wants to help his country, Gloria Steinem is a nazi because she believes in a woman's right to choose what happens to her body, George Bush is a nazi because he killed thousands of innocent Iraqis (well, ummmm). Personally, I'm sick of it. I don't care what side of the fence you're on: nobody is a Nazi except maybe my next door neighbor, but well, you didn't hear it from me. So don't use the term. It's old. If you really want to hurt someone, call them a beast, or a fat beast, or a Jerry Falwell lovin' mama's boy. Don't call them a Nazi.

So on that note, I will retire. I know this is rambling and rather bad, so please don't confuse my literary inadequacies with my political views. I have damn good views, I'm just not the best at expressing them sometimes. Damn Nazis.

Fruit from the Inspirational Tree (EW! This tastes like shit!)

After getting a good night's sleep and talking with several friends after an exceedingly hard night at work last night, I am feeling better. No longer totally troll-like. However, I still have weird bump on my chin and am still fighting enemy forces. Oh well. You can't win 'em all, I say.

So after much soul searching (well, actually not that much), I have come to the realization that I know why I haven't been my usual chipper self lately: I'm not writing anything or cooking very much. Because of my stupid retail job (and the self-imposed need to try to watch digital cable so I actually know what I'm paying $80 a month for), I am no longer producing anything creative, nor am I reading very much, which is probably an even worse thing. I have turned into a little robotic woman who goes to work, goes home, goes to sleep, gets up, fools around, goes to work. It is a sad existence, my friends, but one that I am bound to by economic obligations that I still cannot meet. While I could blame this on the daily traumas of living in George Bush's America, I'm not going to, because a) I don't want to get started about that and b)things will come full circle someday and I will be sorry that I spent this time being pessimistic. So right now, on this blog, I vow to at least incorporate some reading into my life, to stop worrying about the weird things that currently take up valuable space in psyche, and to try to get some good writing done (or at least make some cookies. I mean, God, how hard is that?).

So now that I feel totally dorky for having written that sort of "taking control of my life" mumbo jumbo that is so popular with the middle-age crisis set, I will retire. I am going to take a look at my bookshelves and pick something fun to read. Then I am going to read it. Then I am going to go to work, and smile through it all and be cute and funny and try to say witty things about literature. Ahh. Ain't inspiration grand?

No, actually, no, it's not.

Tales from Under the Bridge

So due to monthly forces that are out of my control, I feel like crap today. Plus, to make matters worse, I look like refried crap. In passing by the mirror in my room this morning, I noticed that recent worries over money, work, life and the state of the country have rendered me a terrifying troll-like creature. Hence the title of today's edition. I have some sort of bump on my chin, I have become even more chubby than previously imagined due to the massive amount of depression induced eating I have done, and I have these weird bags under my eyes that do not seem to want to go away. Plus, my normally charming personality is on vacation for probably another week as my body declares war on itself and then slowly works to clean up the carnage. I am hideous and mean. Case closed.

In a sad twist of fate for the priveleged and bastardly members of the Williamsburg community who beseige me daily with their desires for overly sugared beverages and extra whipped cream, I will not be providing good customer service tonight. I have to work, and I am already dreading it, which is a bad thing since it is only 10:00 in the morning. Plus, I am tired as I awoke at 6:40 this morning and was unable to get back to sleep save for a few shittly little dozes. So be forewarned. If you are a bastard with a special order and a penchant for barking at people who toil in the service industry, STAY AWAY! I will provide you with exceedingly bad customer service, and I might even make your drink wrong just out of spite. You see, absolute power corrupts absolutely, and since the only power I hold right now is over the smoothness of your frappe or the foaminess of your cappuccino, I will be corrupting drinks all night long. Mwah ha ha ha!

Ho hum. Well, since I am coming across as a total freak in this edition of my blog, I will retire. I am hoping to try to get a nap in, but as my mind is deluged with a wealth of conflicting thoughts and emotions, I don't see it happening. Oh well. My heart tells me to go bake a batch of peanut butter cookies with little Hershey kisses on top, but my brain says to search and destroy. Sound weird? Welcome to my world. It sucks. You're going to love it.

Balls the Size of Bowling Balls

Ok, so the title of today's edition sounds like I am making fun of some poor soul with an incredibly painful testicular condition. I'm not. I'm just talkin' about one of my good friends, who at this time is on an honest, I Shit You Not date, and for blog purposes only shall only be referred to as Awesome Chick. Awesome Chick took the bull by the horns yesterday (both literally and somewhat figuratively) and asked her crush out, and well golly gee, that bastard said yes. So they're out right about now, enjoying a romantic lunch together, talking about all the sex they are going to have and what Biblical names they are going to bestow on the future children. Actually, they're probably talking about work, since we all work at the same place, and well, that evil black hole of books and coffee somehow lets itself seep into any conversation had by its employees. Awesome Chick rocks, and rocks hard. She is my new personal hero, and if I were more like her, well, I wouldn't need this blog to whine in. Hell Yeah!

So not much is happening in the land of the Southern Comforted. I bought myself the coolest outfit you have ever seen on Saturday, and since then, have created several dream places to wear it in my sick little thoughts. Ho hum. Oh, and I made a cheesecake for this guy at work (no one really special, just a friend). I heard yesterday that he made orgasm noises while eating it. While this makes me feel good because now I know I am not the only person who moans at the sight of pastry, it also makes me feel fuckin' great because, well, I made a guy get off and I wasn't even there! Talk about talent! I need to bake more of those things.

I have to work tonight. I'm hoping my decidedly unvirginal and totally rockin' manager is closing tonight. If he is not, I might have to cry as his presence is the only thing that can make that job even the slightest bit entertaining. Oh, I take that back. Standing at the customer service desk reading erotica also makes the job interesting, but that's between you and me.

Well, I should go. My apartment is messy, and I should clean it. Ho hum. Oh, I know she doesn't read this, but who the hell cares because I'M WISHING KATHLEEN THE BEST 21ST EVER! HAVE A GOOD UN!

The Daily Grind

Well, today its back to the ole grind. After getting basically nothing that I wanted to get done this weekend actually done, I will return to the place of my employment for another angst ridden encounter with my fellow employees and the customers who daunt us daily with their petty wishes and silly desires. Oh well. Such is life in the service industry, if you can even call it that, as life for me seems to kind of stop when I enter that $6 an hour cave. I just have to keep telling myself, "This is temporary, this is temporary. Soon you'll be sitting on the porch of a big mountain home, having a gin and tonic. This is only temporary." Ah yes. I feel better already.

So speaking of hopes, dreams, and so forth, my mother calls me this morning and tells me about this trip that she and her boyfriend have taken to my dream hometown, Asheville, NC, and all the fun they have had, all the great food they have eaten, what they saw, yada yada yada. All I can think to say is some stuff about that being great and ummm, that sounds good. What I'm thinking is, "What the hell? How did you suddenly get a cooler life than me? You're my mother for chrissakes! Shouldn't you be miserable thinking of how your life is shattered now that your lovely daughter is away at school?" So I hang up the phone and eat about three of these little garlic toasts I made last night, so that I am now thoroughly stinky and unfun. Oh well. At least I don't have any cheesecake around or I would be roughly the size of my car right now. Yum, cheesecake.

In other news as to how sad my life actually is, on Saturday after typing my blog, I decided to check out some of my fellow employee's blogs, something that I haven't done yet. I stumble onto this one that is, well, it made me feel good about myself, and for that to happen, it had to detail a pretty shitty existence. Now, I know this is mean and that I am going to get the worst karma for this, but this person whom I work with who shall remain nameless, is a freak. A very verbose, horny freak who enjoys some very nerdy, strange things. Now that it is in print I feel very bad, but also deliciously good. See how normal I am! Compared to this person, I am a trendy, fun person. Compared to her, goddammit, I am Britney Fuckin' Spears! (Now I feel truly bad, but hey, it's off my chest.)

Well, I should go. I should take a shower before I journey out and scrape off the top skin layer of my tongue as I am sure that is the only way I am going to get the garlic off. Oh well. Before I go, here's the pop-culture related quote of the week, at least according to me: "What do they call them? A super group? A mega group? Maybe it's just marketing ploy."--Matt on Velvet Revolver, who I actually like (I would like an easy listening/ska group if it featured Slash on guitar), but who make very interesting satirical fodder.