Highly recommended.

I want to bite the head off of the plastic dinosaur that sits on my computer.  Not that its done anything wrong.  I just keep imagining how satisfying that would be.  But it would, in fact, be rather difficult.  Time consuming.  And probably not nearly as fulfilling as I imagine.

My roommate, Evan, has been offered an internship at The Onion.  Now, before you crap your pants with jealousy, I must point out that he isn't writing for them.  Yet.  But he will be helping with the advertising and sales for the Chicago edition.  His new Onion-Chicago-night-life connections enabled us to discover a free beer and Judas Priest night at a local bar.  And, since I put up a frickin' Amazon Honor System to be able to go out and drink once in a while, this was a good thing for me.  The only thing that sucked was the Judas Priest.  Sucked hard.  Luckily, they weren't physically present, so I didn't have to try to ignore them.  Just their comically sincere metal videos. 

As with all things, this internship has a downside.  It doesn't pay him.  And requires him to be there during business hours two days a week. So, my roommate tells his current job this.  And since he is #1 in his department (they almost bought him a giant foam finger to advertise the fact), his manager was very agreeable.  The Vice President, however, was not as agreeable.  In that he was a bit of a cock about it.  He told my roommate to pick one: internship or job. 

Evan chose the internship.  He put in his two weeks.  And it makes me squeal with girlish glee.  I'm not too worried about Evan finding another job considering a)he's a rockstar and b)he hoardes his money like he lived through The Great Depression.  The man tried to stick it to Evan, but Evan said, "No, the man.  I will stick it to you."  And we're all so proud.

Shortly after I wrote my entry yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, quietly swimming in anxiety.  And then my boss came up to me and told me that he was taking me out to lunch.  And the anxiety doubled. 

On Wednesday I asked for a raise.  I felt it was well deserved and felt very confident in myself while I was asking for it.  However, the lunch invite completely unnerved me.  I know that business lunches are where the deals are made, but I also know that firing someone in a public place is a popular tactic. 

So for about half an hour I was convinced that I was pregnant.  And getting fired. 

Luckily, neither is true.  I am most decidly not pregnant.  And I would like to think it's a result of the free drinks and haiku, but I'm really going to have to give this one to the pill.  Yeah, pill!  You're so round and full of hormones.  Way to be.

Also, I am receiving a bonus.  And a possibly salary increase in the form of a promotion.  Because, if you're gonna sell out, you might as well make enough to pay off your credit cards.  Good times all around.

Today is Thursday.  My period should have begun on Wednesday.  Thus, I am nervous.

There is a particular sensation that you experience when your period is late.  Your fingers and toes become tingly, your bowels clench on their own, and you find yourself misusing words.  You are unable to concentrate on anything except interrogating your body.  “Seriously, what is this shit?  Is this because I exercised more than usual?  Or because I stressed out for two straight days?  Could driving in a car for a long period of time do this? I spent a lot of time with new girls; maybe they threw me off my cycle?  Speak, bitch.”  But your body, she is not talking. 

Then you try to close your eyes, to breathe slowly, to commune with your uterus.  “Uterus?” you ask, “I need to know.  Is there a fertilized egg in there?”  But then, just as you feel it’s about to answer, your emotions rush at you, overtake you, and tell you either what you fear or want to hear.  The only thing you know for sure is the absence of blood. 

“O.K.  My mom had lots of morning sickness.  I have none.  Ergo, not pregnant.”

“O.K.  I use so much protection it’s not even funny.  Didn’t even miss a pill.  Statistics are on my side.  Not pregnant.”

“O.K.  There are so many hundreds of things that can throw off a woman’s cycle that I’m not even going to waste my time worrying about it.  Not pregnant.  Not pregnant at all.”

“O.K. I’m freaking out about this so much, becoming so upset, that I must have P.M.S.  Which means I’m not pregnant.  Clearly.”

But still, no blood.  The silence of no blood.  

And then you start to worry.  Your mind begins to think things you really don’t want to think about, veering back and forth between images.  Images of happy, bouncing babies. Babies you can’t take care of.  Upset, crying babies.  Crying because they are crawling on the floor of the dirt shack you’re living in because it’s all you can afford.  Becoming images of no babies, you in a doctor’s office, crying.  Being driven home, clenched and bent over in pain.  Pain that is punishment. 

But not pregnant.  Not pregnant would be so much easier. 

Every time my phone rings, I expect it to be a person calling with news of my condition.  Because I am so obsessed, I can’t see anyone calling for any other reason. 

Good times.  Seriously, should I buy the book?

Minutiae

• Once again, the highlight of my life at this moment is that I am able to blog.  And eat a grapefruit. 
• I just finished preparing the renewal leases for August.  I had to seal all 26 envelopes to ready them for mailing.  There are glue sticks the office provides for this purpose.  I do not use them.  The glue becomes matted and clogs the roller ball on the glue stick, and when the glue does come out it’s overly wet.  The envelopes do not seal, but rather become so moist they are no longer sticky.  I licked the envelopes to seal them and felt more intelligent than those that use the glue sticks.
• I cannot get the taste of envelope glue out of my mouth.  This must be why others use the glue sticks.  I am not as intelligent as I hoped.
• There is a woman in my office who is rumored to be an alcoholic.  This is sad.  It should inspire some form of sympathy in me.  But it doesn’t.  I greatly dislike her.  For the following reasons:
• She has very little range of emotion.  She is either excited “Oh, wow!”, or flustered, “Oh, no!”  Also, if you wrote down every sentence that comes out of her mouth, most would end in exclamation marks. 
• Much of the time, when she speaks to me, it is regarding things I have no knowledge of.  Nor should I.  Example: “Isn’t Matt funny?”  I don’t know who Matt is.  But she will wait for an answer.  And then tell me how much I need to get to know Matt, when I get the chance.
• Her divorce lawyer calls the office twice a day.  He has a very deep voice, and becomes upset when she isn’t in her office.  She is rarely in her office.  Also, he doesn’t call in on the main number.  He calls in on the little-known mailroom phone number.  Maybe he thinks it’s the divorce-attorney line.   But it isn’t.  It’s the confuse-the-hell-out-of-me-because-I-hear-the-phone-ringing-but-can’t-pick-it-up-from-my-desk-because-the-phone-is-in-the-fucking-mailroom line. 
• She bitches about lunch.  Every Friday, we get a free lunch.  Every Friday, she bitches about the menu choice.  And the fact that there isn’t enough fish on the menu.  And then she orders some fish-related thing that stinks up the office.
• I do not like answering the phone.  However, the way I answer the phones caused the CEO to notice and then hire me.  So perhaps I shouldn’t shit all over the phones.  But I will anyway.  The standard greeting begins with either “Good morning,” or, “Good afternoon.” But I always mix them up.  During the middle of day, this is forgivable.  But I have been known to say “Good morning” at 4pm and “Good afternoon” at 8:30 in the morning.  The people on the other end of the phone inevitably correct me.  This makes me want to hang up on them.  I tried to help myself by writing “Good morning” and “Good afternoon” on post-its and placing them  on my computer during the appropriate times of day.  But I forgot to change them, so they did not help. 
• I have just been invited to lunch by the CEO.  I am, of course, going.  Because, though the woman makes me nervous, she’s a frickin’ CEO and one assumes going to lunch to her would be a good move.  Plus, she’ll probably pay.
• I have returned from lunch.  We ate at a restaurant called “The Breakfast Club.”  I was disappointed that there was nothing John Hughes-related inside.  I had the beans and rice.  They were good.
• Tonight, I will drink the dregs of the tequila bottle I hid under my kitchen sink.  I hid it there during a party, because I didn’t want the guests to drink all of it.  I haven’t touched it since.  Bad hostess.
• What is currently on and around my computer: 
• A stuffed mouse from the Rentokil Pet Control company.  It was a bribe so I would agree to see their salesman.  I won’t.  But I will keep the mouse
• A pink polka-dot ribbon tied into a bow.  Because I decided my computer was a girl and needed an accessory.
• A tiny sticker of puppies in a barrel.  Because it’s dumb.
• A plastic dinosaur
• A stress-ball in the shape of a heart
• A Thing 1 I received from a box of Rice Krispies
• Hand sanitizer
• An enormous rubber band ball that I am very proud of.  I steal every rubber band I come into contact with, so I can add to its girth. 
• A hat bearing the name of my company.  I refuse to wear it but, as long as I display it prominently on top of my computer, no one seems to mind. 
• Pictures of enormously fat rabbits.  Here is one. 

There are curly white threads on my shirt.  I do not know how they got onto my shirt.  They look like pubes. This makes me think they are pubes. That is gross.  I hope they aren’t pubes, since that would mean that there are pubes just sitting out in the open, waiting to get picked up by people’s shirts.  I will assume they are threads.

I’m almost afraid to blog today.  I’m afraid that I’m only going to write down horrible, vile things.  Because I am tired and angry and wanting so badly to prove to the world that, no, my life is the worst.  Thing.  Ever.  But, clearly, I don’t have leprosy so it isn’t actually that bad. 

I need to escape from my job.  I’m being held in a prison of a crappy salary and health insurance.  And the lighting sucks.  But I can’t leave until I find another job. But I can’t find another job until I have at least a year of experience in this one. 

At least I have a blog.  And a grapefruit.  Those are two things I have going for me.  And hair dye waiting for me at home.  And tonight is taco  night, so that will be good.  Tacos=yummy as crap.  And one day I will get another job.  This is a given.  This we all know.  And next week I’m going to Pittsburgh.  On a vacation with my boyfriend.  That event is guaranteed to rock.  I chose the destination.  He likes it because a) he didn’t have to pick, and b) he gets to make fun of it.  He keeps yelling, “I’m going to Pittsburgh!  Whoo!” 

Survey #1:

Pittsburgh: Lame or So Lame it’s Cool?

 I am bored.  I am bored because I have a boring job.

Survey #2:

                Are you bored?  If so, why?  

But there is hope for my boredom: I have applied to a job that was made for as though it were a custom-fit glove.  I have yet to hear back from this job.  I can’t decide which will be worse: to interview and not get it, or not to get to interview at all.  Trying to decide which is worse is ludicrous, though, because the decision is not up to me. 

Survey #3:

Will you hire me?  I’m really good at stuff.  And if your job isn’t boring, I won’t blog at work.  I  promise.

The best thing ever, that I must keep reminding myself of so as to stop myself from bitching perpetually:

I am going to be published on two (2) different websites.  That is good.   I don’t know when it will happen, but you can be damn sure I’ll let everyone and their mom know.

Survey #4:

                What good thing is happening to you?  Is it as good as going to Pittsburgh?