July 22, 2006 - 10:47 p.m. It's hot. It's fucking hot. It's not "I live in Arizona" hot. It's "My California ranch house was build in 1949" hot. Life was not only simpler but more temperate in the 50's, even with their wool suits and porkpie hats. I didn't fall asleep until four fuckin' thirty this morning. We have to draw the shades because the house is now clothing optional. I'd consider a Brazilian if it would help. My hair - on my head! unrelated to prior sentence! - is falling out. Amid the hair, prostrate pets are splayed on the floors. Conclusion: This sucks wang. So what does one do in this heat? Go to dogfriendly restaurants and dine al fresco. Go to Target and browse for an hour. Don't move but for your lips, as you bitch and moan that we have no pool, no AC, and no rich friends who have a pool and AC. In addition to record heat, I spent about four hours untangling a mess of spreadsheets and other highly ambiguous tasks, so I have another four hours tomorrow. I cannot tell you how infuriating it is to send out spreadsheet templates and then load them into one database, which will be manually loaded into another datase, from which I extract data into spreadsheets and send back to people who have no concept of a deadline just so I can do it again three days later. And it doesn't matter that much because the goddamned company is up for sale. Last week, one of my coworker's younger brother died. I spoke to said coworker the day after and he began to sob. Then I did too. I hate crying at work. I don't like to admit that I've done it more than once, but I have. Whoops, I broke through my denial there for a moment. So a little retail therapy never hurts. I bought one of these to reduce my stress. This picture of the rubber chicken does not do justice to the psychedelic, swirling egg it lays. It really is cute, I must say. No doubt this toy will further alienate me from my coworkers, so this might be our little secret, assuming I'll still have a job. � previous - next