CR says that there are some people, who, can be "stuck" in the most boring job in the world, but who are still interesting anyway.

Sometimes, I'm a little weirded out by the fact that everyone seems to think I'm someone I'm not.

The funny thing I get --- people think I'm joking half the time, when in reality, I'm actually saying something I really believe. Other times, it's the "mean" factor. It's always funny as long as it's not you who's being criticized or made fun of.

The other night, CR was like, "You know who you're like? You're like House. That's why you like him so much. Takes one to know one."

In last night's episode, when Cuddy tells Wilson that, despite all of the mean shit that House says sometimes, he's actually held himself back a lot --- 'cause when he wants to be mean, he has this way of saying the exact thing that'll hurt the most --- I knew that was what I was like, too.

I hold back a lot.

If I said half the things that I've thought, I wouldn't have any friends at all --- though, for the most part, I'm pretty up front when it comes to my friends.

I'm not doing you any favours if I hold back --- and I do have this tendency to be right all the time.

Yes. That sounded pompous, but it's true.

I just find people extremely easy to read.

Nobody's unique.

Everybody is predictable.

Predicting what's going to happen is the interesting and fun part for me.

Anyways...I wound up writing in my other journal again. I figured everybody who used to read it had stopped reading 'cause they'd figured I'd abandoned it. I just figured I'd been writing in it for so long, why the hell should I quit just because some weirdo was leaving me weird comments?

Today's Soundtrack:


We believe that we can change ourselves
The past can be undone
But we carry on our back the burdens time always reveals
In the lonely light of morning
In the wound that would not heal
It's the bitter taste of losing everything...
- Sarah McLachlan, "Fallen"

Do you know how, when you've felt a certain way for a really long time, you start to forget what it was like before you felt this way?

I don't know when I stopped feeling excited and happy and full of anticipation about Christmas. I don't know when Christmas started becoming this time of year that just made me really sad about my life.

Who knows? Maybe it's because another year's drawing to an end and you wind up taking stock of what's happened, what hasn't happened, and you start wondering if anything ever going to change for the better.

Oh.

And the guilt.

The guilt that comes with thinking that you probably have no right to feel down about anything, 'cause things could always be worse.

Somehow, I feel like this has all been said before.

I'm just stuck on repeat now.

I know this is bad, but I met a friend's boyfriend a little while ago.

Meeting him kind of made me feel better in a way, 'cause he was the kind of guy I would never go for and a small part of me felt like my friend was just like every other person I knew who was all coupled up --- like she was just settling for what she could get.

Maybe that's the secret.

Maybe true love doesn't really exist.

Maybe you've just got to find someone that you can settle for.

Or maybe that's something I tell myself to make the reality of my situation seem a whole lot more bearable.

I was reading through Pandax's blog when I came across this link for a comic called Single Asian Female.

On Friday night, when I had dinner with my cousin, who was in town for a week, she asked me what kind of guys I "normally" date. I told her that because my last date was in May and that since then I'd decided to call it quits and just embrace my impending spinisterhood status already, I didn't "normally" date anyone...but if we're trying to cull historical data, I'd say I dated mostly white guys.

But then after one too many bad experiences, I started disliking the notion of dating white guys. For one thing, a lot of them seem to have Asian fetishes.

That's why I thought this comic was actually kind of interesting and cool. In some ways, I actually relate to it.

A part of me really can't figure out if I'm feeling the way I'm feeling because I'm still sick or if it's just another bout of depression.

I keep thinking about what KN said.

"Depression's a big word. And you --- you're just not depressed, okay?" she blurted.

At the time, even though I didn't show it, I was a little irritated and angry. It was like, "Oh, thank you so much for telling me what I feel."

But who knows? Maybe she's actually right.

Or maybe I should just go to a therapist already.

SA cautioned, "Therapists are really willing to prescribe anti-depressants. I asked for it and they just gave it to me. And then I was in a fog for the longest time. It's something you really have to think long and hard about."

Sometimes, I think that if you pretend often enough that you're okay, you can almost fool yourself into thinking it's true.

And the thing is, there was this one time when one of my aunts actually thought I was depressed because I was single.

Like, what the fuck?

It's not about that.

I honestly feel like, even if I was with someone, it wouldn't help to erase the overriding feeling that something's missing in my life. And maybe it's a bigger thing like trying to find some sort of purpose to my existence.

Found this on Youtube and I find it really haunting...'cause I've been in that place where you're just driving and you feel like, you could keep on driving forever...but where the hell are you gonna go?

When you're given a five minute break from a tedious training session, there's really nowhere to go and nothing to do besides make a quick trip to the washroom --- and the women's washroom is always busy. All the stalls are full.

I guess everybody was bladder shy, 'cause nobody made a sound except for this one woman who sounded like she was emptying Niagara Falls into the toilet. But I guess the silence eventually made her self-conscious 'cause then she started peeing in spurts --- like a water faucet being turned on and off.

I was attacked by a fit of giggles and I started pressing both palms against my mouth, trying to hold it in.

I don't know what it is with me and inappropriate laughing.

When the presenter at the training session took a sip of water and swallowed wrong and started coughing, I wanted to burst out laughing again. My shoulders shook in silent laughter and I had to look away. The girl next to me noticed and started laughing, too, and C had to look over and tell me to get a hold of myself.

Kelly Ripa Has No Class

No class.

Just no class.

I think Kelly Ripa's blowing a little thing out of proportion.

This is a prime example of someone who's got an easy life -- I mean, when you can get so upset over something so small and then go on to whine and moan and bitch about it on national TV...then you just know this woman doesn't have any real problems.



Kudos to Rosie for what she said --- though, Kelly calls in and starts in on how Clay "bullied" her, by playfully placing his hand over her mouth so that he could try and get in a word edgewise.

She claims "it's water under the bridge" --- if that's the case, then why did she have to whine about it afterwards?

I think that if you're a person with real class, you would have let that minor incident go --- or at the very least, gone and talk to the person face-to-face instead of airing out your views to the public without offering him the chance to apologize.

Geez.

Poof! Gone!

Wrote up a post and now it's gone.

Don't ask me what I hit.

So, now I start from scratch.

You ever wonder if things happen for a reason? I mean, does that apply to small things, too?

Someone was telling me on Saturday night that I need to have a little more faith that things would work themselves out and that everything that's meant to happen will eventually happen --- and if they don't, then maybe they weren't meant to be.

I couldn't help wondering if she'd been watching one too many Oprah episodes.

I'm feeling sick.

I just want to crawl under the covers and just sleep.

The only upside of being sick is not being able to smell anything. There's this guy in the office who has "jungle animal breath" (not my words). On the one hand, you kinda feel bad for him 'cause every time he comes around, people hold their breath and as soon as he's gone, there's this collective whoosh as everybody starts breathing again.

The minute he's gone, we all turn to each other with looks like, "What the hell?"

Such foulness has never been smelt before.

I suggested leaving an anonymous note --- a public service kind of thing --- to let him know the whole office was bothered by it.

The perverse side of me wants to make the new team lead deal with it.

God. Can you imagine how uncomfortable it'd be to have to sit down and talk to someone about how bad they smell?

Personally, I don't think I'd have a problem with it.

But then again, I'm starting to feel like I have a lump of coal where my heart used to be.

In other insignificant news, I've stopped writing in the other blog.

I just don't have patience for idiots who leave asinine comments on it. I can't stop the guys from reading it or commenting on it, but I can stop writing in it.

What is it with me and weird guys who somehow find my journals?

Jumping to another tangent now, there's this guy at work who's like the gay, male version of me. Or rather, the me that I've become after 28 years of disappointment, failure and heartache.

There's just something about lost souls who are bitter and bored with life --- you can see it in their eyes. They feel the way you feel.

You know...I used to think it'd be nice if someone would come along and tell me with great assurance that everything in my life would be okay.

But if that happened now, I don't know if I'd really believe it.

Hmmm...Okay. Thought I lost this, but here it is:

Same old, same old.

That's what I told a friend when she asked how things were.

I don't get why people, who you've just talked to and seen a few days ago, will ask you that...as if a lot happens in those few days. I mean, it might to other people or in the movies, but in my life? It's the same old, same old.

Not that I'm really complaining. The older I get, the more I realize that a complicated life isn't all that great. But then again, an overly simple one isn't all that great, either.

So, the other blog is shut down.

I always seem to get weird male readers. I don't know --- I guess I just relate more to other women who are in the same boat as me. I know it's not rational, but when a guy feels like it's his place to tell you what you should do with your life and how to "fix" it --- and this coming from some random stranger off the Internet --- my first impulse is, "Fuck you."

I don't often take advice. I'm the one who dishes it out. So, usually, when I'm writing, it's just me trying to work out what I'm going to do about something...or it's just me complaining for the sake of complaining.

I'll be honest though --- there were times when it was sort of nice having that sense of connection when someone would take the time to email you. But at the same time, the Internet's the Internet.

On a completely different tangent...I'm coming down with something.

It's that time of year.

I sort of feel like Patient Zero at work, though --- the plus side of it, though? I get to use "I'm contagious" as an excuse for not talking to certain people. I'm so good at pretending to be nice and polite that half the people at work who think I'm "nice" don't have a clue that I can't stand them.

I have no idea why I do that.

I should just be a bitch more often and then maybe everybody will just leave me the hell alone.

Of course, the main reason I want to be left alone right now is that I feel a constant river of water leaking out of my nose and I can't be sure if I need to wipe my nose or not, so I don't really want to talk to people 'cause I'll wind up spending more time wondering if they're staring in horror at a gigantic booger in my nose instead of concentrating on what they're saying.

I hate meetings.

I think we've already established that.

I had a grand total of five meetings yesterday. Today, I had only two, but I was already in a bitchy mood. (PMS, here I come!) So, when my team lead was like, "I think we should incorporate presentations in our weekly staff meetings and we can take turns presenting", I pointed at my face and said to him, "This isn't an enthusiastic face."

(Sharp inhale of breath from my cubicle neighbour, who later told me, "I couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth.")

And then, when, again, he threw out the suggestion and said "somebody" from the room might want to go first next week, I told him, "Avert your eyes, 'cause it's not gonna be me."

Maybe I'm just looking to get fired at this point, though I can't honestly say that I hate my job. It's okay. It's not where I thought I'd be at this point in my life, but you get used to disappointments after awhile, you know?

I guess that's why I'm irritated with people who are especially whiney about how "unfair" things are in their life.

It's like, resign yourself to the sheer meaninglessness and shittiness of life already.

I've been thinking about taking a couple of classes and maybe pursuing another career path. I don't like talking about it with other people, though, 'cause you'll invariably get that all-too-enthusiastic, "Yeah! That's a great idea!"

I don't need a pep rally. I'd rather just get on with it and do it and see where that leads me.

The weird thing is, when someone else gives me advice or tells me that something sounds like a good idea, I don't really feel like doing it anymore. I lose interest faster than you can say, "Crap."

I'm tired...and there's still Nanowrimo to sludge through.

You know how, when you're fresh out of school and you're starting your first job and your supervisor or manager is, like, ancient? And because they're older, there's a bit of that deference that you give them 'cause they've been in the business so much longer than you have. Or maybe it's just this Asian thing with me, you know? Respect your elders or at least pretend to, even though deep inside, you'd love nothing more than to scratch their eyes out?

The thing is, the older you get, the age gap suddenly seems to narrow. And when you've got a supervisor who's either the same age as you or a little bit older...say, appropriate dating age...it just makes things different.

Who knows? Maybe it's more about a comfort level, you know? The truth is, I kinda think that I don't really take my team lead seriously 'cause he's not all that much older than me.

When he scheduled a one-on-one meeting, I was like, "Ah, fuck it. If everybody else is afraid to say certain things, then I'm going to have to say it."

I'd already been appointed the unofficial spokesperson for all of the team's grievances, anyway.

I just don't have any patience for the whole meek, mild and shy act.

It's pathetic. If you've got something to say, just fucking say it, you know?

At first, I thought the meeting was pure bullshit and a waste of my time, but now I'm beginning to see that it's a pretty useful time to give the team lead some feedback...and it seems like I'm the only one who gave any real feedback. Or maybe he was just acting like he was taking it all in, when in reality, he thought I was a loud mouthed bitch.

The whole loud mouthed bitch thing is something I've acquired with age.

I'm sitting here wearing a French beret that my best friend gave me.

I'm not quite sure why.

Maybe it's because my hair is hideous and I don't like looking at myself in the mirror --- even though I'm not looking in the mirror right at this minute. Though...the point is, I know what I look like without the hat and with it on, it just looks better. Very Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde.



Sometimes, do you ever feel like you don't really have any right to complain about...well...anything? Like, maybe the only "real" problem in your life is that it's not 100% the way you thought it should be, but otherwise, you've got a lot going for you...except, maybe you're too focused on that one thing to see it?

It's like what Carrie said in Sex and the City:
Why do we let the one thing we don't have affect how we feel about all the things we do have?

Rochefoucauld once said that we are never so happy nor so unhappy as we imagine.

I'm starting to wonder if that's really true.

And other times, I just wish I wouldn't do so much of this thinking, 'cause it's like I'm always thinking about the same thing.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm giving variations of the same speech to other people --- little pep talks as if I were some self-help guru, intent on trying to make them feel better and to put things in perspective. And then, when I'm feeling shitty, it's like I forget all of that and I'm lying in bed, thinking that if I died now, it wouldn't really matter, would it? Who would really give a shit? (Though, I know there'd probably be a few people who would...like my family and friends.)

It sort of makes me feel like a hypocrite 'cause it always seems so easy to tell others what to do, but then when it comes to yourself, it's so hard to remember the very same things you've telling others.

It's like what Meredith said on Grey's Anatomy. It's so easy to offer up a quick fix to a problem when you don't know jack shit about it. She says, "We're supposed to forget the past that led us here, ignore the future complications that might arise and go for the quick fix."

Though...to be fair, I don't think I've ever offered quick fixes and I've always prefaced any advice with the words, "I'm not a psychic. I don't know how things'll turn out. I can't promise you it'll get better."

Yet...when someone tells me that things will get better, with that certainty that seems to come from nowhere, I sometimes want to believe it, even though I'd much rather hear the things that my best friend tells me: maybe you'll be happy, maybe you won't. I can't predict that.

I think people who have more than one friend are luckier than most.

But maybe I only feel that way 'cause I have the burden of being that one friend to a lot of people.

Like High and Mighty Woman?

Sometimes...sometimes it makes me not want to be her friend 'cause it's annoying being the recipient of umpteen calls throughout the night...and sometimes, I feel bad, 'cause I don't want to listen to her. And I don't like the way she acts like she's my best friend...and yes, I know this makes me sound incredibly childish, but it creeps me out when someone's so dependent on you to be the holder and listener of their secrets; they want you to be a witness to their life...and I get it. I mean, we all want that in some respect, right?

But still...

It's like what Foreman said to House about being overly involved in Wilson's life:
That's why you need more than one friend.

So, you want to hear something weird?

This one guy leaves a comment on my blog suggesting that I read this other Asian person's blog.

Didn't exactly think it was racist; skimmed the blog and thought, "Thanks, but no thanks. Not for me."

I mean, what makes something worth reading to another person, anyway?

You connect with what the other person thinks, right? And it really depends on what they're putting out there. I mean, I'm generally a malcontent, so I identify more with the people who are trying to lead authentic lives in an increasingly inauthentic world. (Alan Ball actually said that, but it always stuck with me, 'cause I thought it was a neat way of looking at the characters he created for Six Feet Under.)

But anyway, another guy writes in and goes, "Oh, how racist of this guy!" yadda yadda yadda.

See, the thing is, you have to leave your email address to leave a comment on this other blog, so...did they think I wouldn't remember the name of the Asian guy's blog and wouldn't clue in that this was the same person?

The weird thing is that they're now having a back-and-forth exchange through my other blog and it's like...okay...wait...is this supposed to be some weird inside joke on my expense or what? And who has that kind of time to waste?

I didn't really comment on either of their comments...what was there to write, anyway? This is the blog where I try to sort out all the muddled-up feelings I've got. Yes, other people read it, but to a large extent, they're not so much faithful readers so much as people who peer in every once in awhile 'cause I guess maybe the stuff I have to write about depression and loneliness and confusion are things that they've been thinking about, too.

There are some people I don't mind writing back to. And then again, there are those who leave comments not really expecting me to write anything back...what is there to write back? I'm not going to write something back for the sake of just writing. And then, there are others I'm just content to ignore 'cause I can't offer them any answers. That journal is for me and my "issues" as Commenter 1 put it.

If I knew all the answers, I probably wouldn't feel the way that I still do.

And yet...there are times when you kind of sense that the other person expects more out of you 'cause they think they know you based on what you've written...as if you're now friends or something.

And in the past, it used to be hard to ignore it and not respond 'cause even though you know there's no real connection, you're still aware of that the other person wants you to acknowledge them. Sort of like, "Yes. I see you."

And I guess that's what's lacking in real life, sometimes...it's like Thoreau said about how there are people who lead lives of quiet desperation. No kidding.

I guess we're all just looking to be reminded that we're alive and that we're not completely invisible.

If you had a sibling who couldn't conceive, would you want to offer to be a surrogate or a sperm donor?

I mean, wanting to do something is different from actually offering --- 'cause, sometimes, we offer to do things that we don't really want to do...you know, out of obligation and this general sense of "it's the right thing to do."

The thing is, I'd actually had this discussion with my mother months ago, before the storyline on Brothers & Sisters started to play out.

Brother Tommy turns out to be sterile and he and his wife are trying to conceive.

They don't want to adopt and they're looking at sperm donors --- except, he doesn't want to raise a stranger's kid. He wants a child who'll be a part of who he is...he obviously can't love a child unless the child's blood related.



You know how I feel about this? If you do not have it in you to adopt and love a child regardless of their DNA, then maybe in the grander scheme of things, you're not meant to have kids.

But let's not get into that.

The part that really pissed me off was when sister Brenda...er, Sarah, played by Rachel Griffiths, started in on gay brother, Kevin, who didn't want to donate his sperm.



She snipes at him at the dinner table, in front of guests, calling him "selfish" for not wanting to do this for his brother.

And while I didn't like his reasoning --- he didn't want the kid to grow up and have to deal with the fact that his biological father is his gay uncle --- I still thought he had a right to deny his brother's request.

I mean, I thought it would have been more reasonable if he'd said something like, "It would hurt, knowing that that was my child and hearing him or her refer to me as the uncle."

Okay, maybe that seems selfish, but I always thought that, if I had no one in my life to grow old with and start a family with, it'd be incredibly hard for me to go through nine months and then give birth only to have the child raised by my sibling.

It would be hard for me --- especially since I firmly believe that if you want kids that badly, you would adopt.

It would sort of feel like I was losing out all over again. No husband, no kids.

But maybe it's different for men and women.

Rule 1
If I don't know you, don't touch me. Repeat after me: I don't like to be touched.

Rule 2
When I get into work, I don't like to make any bullshit chit chat for at least 15 minutes. Let me just sit there and drink my morning coffee in peace.

---

So, I'm on a crowded train, dazed and sort of half-asleep, when I spot the tiny little Filippina at work that everybody thinks is sweet and cute and oh-so-nice. And yes, if you can tell there's a slight trace of sarcasm in there, then you're more astute than a lot of people I know.

First off? Just because someone's older and shorter than you doesn't automatically make her "sweet" and "cute." You're just looking at surface stuff there and making judgments based on nothing.

This woman is inept, clueless, and irritating -- like a pebble in your shoe. She gets in your space with all the inappropriate touching and shuffles when she walks and generally doesn't know what she's doing, so you wind up having to do double the work under the same deadline if you have the misfortune of working with her.

I have no tolerance for stupidity -- no matter what package it's wrapped up in.

But the thing is, it's not like I haven't been raised right. I say hello, turn on the smile, and start making the obligatory small talk appropriate for an early morning. (Ie. "Wow. It's gotten cold!" and "I had to find my hat and gloves this morning!")

I hate small talk. I'd rather not talk. I'd rather get to my desk and sit in anti-social silence for a good 15 minutes before having to face anybody.

But then, she follows me into the break room, where she cheerily comments that we're wearing the same outfit.

I look down at my red shirt and black pants and think, "Oh dear God, we are. We look like the demented version of the Bobsey Twins."

The annoying old woman continues with, "Oh, and you have a button on your back pocket, too!" and then proceeds to pat my ass.

I instantly felt myself clench and this overwhelming sense of violation washed through me. I wanted to take the scalding hot cup of coffee and fling it in her face, actually -- but I didn't. I mean, I'll often go for the most melodramatic scenario in my head, but in reality, I'll fume inwardly...like the other day, when this guy thought he was being all cute and flirty and just totally disrupted the flow of what I was doing? Oh my God. I wanted to stab him through that meaty paw of his with my pen.

---

Last night, the water faucets in the main washroom started making this weird noise and I thought, "Fuck!"

See, the thing is, I know all that blah blah about how you don't need a man in your life, but the point is, it'd be nice to have one around the house who knew how to fix things.

And flashing back to that 30 Rock episode where Tina Fey tells the lesbian she's been set up with that, in 20 years' time, if they're both single, they should move in together...and while she's not into the whole gay lifestyle, she'd let her "do stuff" to her.

*sigh*

As a divorced friend keeps telling me, "You must wed a tradesmen."

I'm feeling sick, but not sick enough to call in sick at work, 'cause if I did, I know I'd just sit around at home all day, feeling like this was a waste of time, 'cause there's nothing interesting on TV during the day, unless you count Passions, which is technically on in the afternoon, and even then, you can't really call it "interesting" so much as you'd call it "stupid" because everybody seems to sleep with everybody else in that town, and that kind of makes all of the relationships vaguely incestuous since everybody's also related to everybody else...and come to think of it, isn't one couple actually half-brother and half-sister, just like in the latest episode of House, which was so, so, so good because House is back to his usual cranky self?

Okay, I fully realize that was one mother of a run-on sentence, but trust me, it's nowhere near as nauseating as when I'm talking and I go on these tangents where I'll jump from one thing to another and then wind up comparing someone to a serial killer by accident, when in reality, I just meant they shared an interesting trait with a character from a book about serial killers.

So, something I've been thinking about lately, is what the Best Friend mentioned awhile back:

Only women will question if they really like someone whereas guys know right off the bat.

She brought this up because I was questioning if what I thought I felt were genuine feelings as opposed to an outgrowth of desperation and loneliness resulting from ushering in my 28th birthday single. Such a sad, sad state. Though, seriously, the older I've gotten, the more at peace I am with the fact that I don't seem to gel well with a whole lot of people. But now I realize it's not just me -- that a lot of people are facing the same dilemma. Or maybe I'm projecting and seeing things that aren't there, 'cause I love to psychoanalyze people (as though I were highly qualified to do so) and try to figure out what their back stories are.

*sigh*

As you can probably tell, my mind's all over the place today.

Rifling through the stack of mail when I got home yesterday evening, I found a letter that started off with, "Dear Single..."

It was one of those matchmaking service.

"Do you feel lonely?" the ad asked. "Do you wish you could be like other people and have someone in your life to share those special moments with?"

Just little slaps in the face, you know?

I felt like Carrie in that episode where she turns 35 and has the worst birthday imaginable.

She also gets an ad for a matchmaking service that addresses her as "Dear Single."

She fumes over how, because she's single, she seemingly doesn't deserve to be addressed by her name.

That's sort of how I felt, too --- though, to be fair, if they had put my name on the letter, I would have felt worse. I mean, is there something stamped on my forehead that cries out, "Single"?

I instantly had an image of myself walking down the streets of downtown Toronto wearing a sandwich board that read: Single and Lonely. Please Date Me.

Woke up in a crabby mood --- not because of the "Dear Single" letter (because in all truth, I do think that I've finally begun to stop thinking so much about my single status and the fact that I have nobody in my life to share those special and unspecial moments with...I'd rather dwell on the fact that I have nobody in my life right now to annoy me and hog the covers and suck the joy out of me), but because my dear friend PMS had shown up in full raging force.

There's this guy at work who gets on my every last fucking nerve.

Other women tolerate him 'cause they think he's got this cute, charming manner to him.

I just find him real fucking annoying.

Like when he swung by my desk and pushed the papers I was looking at away from me and "joked", "Oh, right. You're 'working', huh?"

Oh my God, I just wanted to stab him in the eye with my pen. Actually, no. I wanted to find two pens and stick them in each eye.

Because I was in such a sulky mood, I ate all of the Halloween candy at my desk without really thinking. Just tore each wrapper off and shoved them one-by-one into my mouth, trying to eat myself into oblivion.

I've gained weight --- and it bugs me that people go, "Pfft. Whatever. You're still so skinny. What are you now? A size 1?"

That's not the point. I'm just making an observation that I've gained weight...and if it did bother me that I was a size 1, what does it matter to them?

It's not like I'm going to become anorexic or bullemic.

God, I hate being at work today.

At one point, I just wanted to shove my chair back, put on my jacket and just walk out of there.

I actually thought (in a very Rochelle-like moment...and if you don't know who Rochelle is, then you don't watch Everybody Hates Chris): I don't need this! My man's got two jobs.

But the thing is, I don't have a man, nevermind one with two jobs.

I think I'd be bored sitting around at home, too.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

I think I have a cavity.