Wednesday, April 06, 2005

A Littlebitta AD, A Littlebitta HD

It's something like twenty-seven hours that stand between me and eleven days worth of vacation, and I'm too antsy to write anything. Like a kid who's just sucked down a can of Coke through a Twizzler and topped it off with a couple lines of Pixie Stix, I can't keep my mind on anything for more than a couple seconds.

Since I can't really commit to entire paragraphs at this point, I will endeavor to give you as many complete sentences as I can.

Perhaps this is just an elaborate cover-up for having absolutely nothing to talk about.

It's not; that's besides the point.

Did you ever have one of those days where you wake up, put on some clothes, leave the house feeling really good, supafly, even, and an hour later wonder what the hell you were thinking, because everything itches and nothing looks right?

I'm having one of those days.

If I get "randomly chosen" to have my bags searched again at the airport, I'm seriously gonna start wearing a tin-foil hat lest the government's spyin' rays further penetrate my brain.

I'm planning on having a tuna melt for dinner, because Andrea has started a trend in my life that will one day leave me alone in a house I've built from empty Chicken of the Sea cans, a jaundice yellow expanse of American cheese as my roof.

I will, I assume, be popular with the felines.

For me, packing is like trying to eat an entire row of Peeps in one mouthful; no matter how hard you try, it's just not going to fit.

Do I need the purple corduroy blazer?

Do I?

What about the red sandals?

They're new.

I think I may be navigating morally ambiguous terrain, in that I am actively encouraging a 38 year old's job-quitting whim when I probably should be reminding him of his legal responsibility to feed and clothe his child.

Whatever, hilly terrain affords the potential of a good cardio workout, which, if you get my drift, the straight and narrow never offers.

All of a sudden, the complimentary feminine hygiene products in the ladies room in my office have been relocated from their proper, wall-mounted receptacle to an H&H Bagels bag.

I hope everyone appreciates the fact that I allowed that sentence to be funny on it's own merits and didn't even hint at any kind of joke involving "yeast."

The other day, I recieved an e-mail from a doctor whose book I'm editing which told me that I'm "brilliant" and "a genius" and, also, that "he never sounded so good."

My favorite part was that he didn't send the e-mail to me, because I am an assistant; instead, he sent it to his editor, who forwarded it to my editor, who forwarded it to me.

Peon though I may be, I'm a peon who's gonna be on vacation in less than a day.

I'll peon YOU, buddy.


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