Thursday, March 31, 2005

Dear Useless Hunk of Scrap Metal,

(formerly known as Blaze the Amazing Thunder Blazer)

I am tired of your bullshit. This makes three times in less than a month. Why did you decide to donate all of your oil to the Wawa parking lot??? WHY? That place doesn't need your oil. I need your oil! I need your oil to continue coursing through your little motor veins and smoothing your little motor joints and...and doing whatever else it is that oil does so that you can keep getting me to Work.

I know, I know. I hate Work too. Work is a soul-draining black hole of a place that really makes us all question the point of our own existences. But Work puts gas in your tank, and new wipers on your windshield. Did you ever think of that? Did you? No. I didn't think so. I mean, do you even know how much a gallon of gas costs these days? Not as much as a gallon of ice cream, sure, but the world doesn't run on ice cream, now, does it? And neither ice cream nor gas is free, so just work, you fucking peice of shit or I will fuckingstrangleyouwithYOUROWNWEATHERSTRIPPINGSOHELPMEGOD!!!!!!!!!


I got a little carried away there, but I think we understand each other. I am glad we had this little talk.


Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Office Haiku #6

Spring petals unfurl
Perfect in the elegant
Sweet rain. Fuck this job.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

I'm Pretty Sure Brain Cells Don't Grow Back

Stupid Corporate Slave #1: Hey, what's that new religion called that Madonna practices?

Less-Stupid Corporate Slave #1: It's called Kabala.

Less-Stupid Corporate Slave #2 (e.i. Me): ....and it's not new.

Stupid Corporate Slave #1: think it has something to do with Jewishism...I heard Ashton Kutcher's into it too...

*Less-Stupid Corporate Slave #2 feels herself growing stupider; tries to stab self with hilighter; fails.*

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Ye, Though I Walk Through the Valley in the Shadow of Pants...

To: ~eve~
From: Phaedre

Let it be known to all the land, I have been officially reprimanded for the wearing of jeans on a non-jeans wearing day. Go, henceforth, and proclaim the shamefulness to all you meet!!

To: Phaedre
From: ~eve~

Shame! Shame! Shame! Shame! You are a vile creature.

To: ~eve~
From: Phaedre

Lo! Let no pure creature cast an innocent gaze upon the legs of the vile beast who walketh in denim like a plague upon the earth! Oh Lord! Why hast thou sent this demon among us to defile thine holy dress code? Oh Lord! Give us the strength to resist the evil that this foul button-fly bringeth to your most faithful of khaki-clad worshipers! Deliver us from the loose, immoral ways of the casual dresser, and unto your divine temple of khaki!


(edit/P.S.: I find it totally amusing that the first thing that both of us did when we had a chance was slap this on our blogs. For the record, ~eve~ got there first.)

The underwear of holy matrimony.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Office Haiku #5

Don't tell me about
my job description; that's your
arbitrary trip.

(i.e.: beware of employment where the fine print reads, "and anything else on God's green earth that We decide you should do today." You just can't argue with that clause. I mean, it is right there in mottled gray, right? Right?)

Monday, March 07, 2005

A Series of Unfortunate Events: #5

I can't tell this one to the internets.

Never mind.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

A Series of Unfortunate Events: #879

Everyone I know already knows this story. Because I had to tell everyone that day.

I go in to school to student teach one day last year, like a responsible, nicely-dressed, professional student teacher. I am looking good in some black pants and a flattering blue button-down Express shirt. I am teaching up a storm, interacting, leading class after class, having a good ol' time, when all of the sudden, in the middle of 5th period, I hear one of the girls whisper, "shouldn't someone tell her?"

"Tell her what," I say, spinning around, trying to locate the whisperer. "What?? WHAT SHOULD SOMEONE TELL ME?"

"Um...your shirt..." a merciful girl up front says quietly. I look down with a sinking feeling. I look down to see that I have popped a button and I am now flashing most of my boobs and sexy red bra to this girl. And the rest of her ninth-grade classmates. And my cooperating teacher and my supervisor who is visiting from the university. Nice.

A Series of Unfortunate Events- #389

This occured in elementary school, when you can excuse anything from that era with "hey, I was like, six." These occurences are only precursors to my long and horrifying career as a human.

It is embarassing mostly because it is so stupid. I was sitting in class in fifth or sixth grade, doing some project. I was also spacing out completely and playing with scissors near my face. Try explaining to your teacher and nurse and principal and parents that you, an honor student, just cut your own lip with scissors and would probably need stitches for no good reason.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Drawbacks to Being a Grownd-Up

It snows a lot...

...and you have to dig out your own car!
...and you still have to go to work after that!
...and no one makes you hot chocolate!
...and if you make a snow angel or four on your way, you have to sit at work all cold and wet and shivery, so you don't!