(no subject)

Well, I overslept because my alarm didn't go off and raced out the door to work two hours late. Aaaaaaaaaaand then I got almost all the way there before I said, "What the hell am I doing?" What's the point in making such a big deal about making it to work now, with only two days left? Or even going at all?

So now I'm sitting at home, misbehaving and slacking off until D-Day of Friday. And since I'm such a responsible little bastard, especially when it comes to my job, my boss is, quite possibly, constantly keeping an eye on the front door and going, "Any minute now. She'll show up any minute now ..."

Yes, fear me, for I am Jennifer, cultivator of illusions. All tremble before me as I make you believe I am a good, decent young woman, all while I sit at home eating nachos and going, "Shyeah, right." Fear me, I tell you!

Ahem.

In any event, can I just say how much I love the world of 2:00 in the morning? It's like "The Stand," where everybody just up and sort of vanishes all at once. And instead of going to church to repent and die in the arms of the Lord, everybody went to the strip club to dish out twenties and pass out in the arms of Bubba the bouncer.

I also figured out that the best place to dump a body would probably be the Salvation Army at about three in the morning. They don't have security cameras (well, ours doesn't), no one could really be sure it was you dumping that black garbage bag, and hey, it's a battle to the death to see which smell gets picked up first, rotting flesh in the summer heat or those rancid shorts some skanky moron tossed into the bin without washing first.

Yes, the Salvation Army -- Step fourteen in committing the perfect murder!

(no subject)

Why I love Television Without Pity.

Is it eight o'clock yet? I'm so dying to see tonight's episode of TAR. What I'm hoping is that tonight's episode isn't another non-elimination leg, because I want to see Millie and Chuck get bitch-slapped into a nice hotel and a hella lot of "survivor's" guilt. Stupid virgins. I hope they get trampled by unicorns or eaten by vampires or tossed into a volcano as part of tonight's Roadblock.

So come to think of it, I actually do have to go to work tonight, if only because I have a remote control for a TV I sold a friend of mine and I have to make sure she gets it. Plus, I'm pretty sure they'd dock my final paycheck if I don't give them back my timecard and security card (don't correct me on that one, fallofrain or digitalodyssey, because otherwise I'll just keep my lazy ass at home, thank you very much), so I get to take a ride down to Scranton at ten tonight.

Did I ever mention that Scranton has that artsy thing going on with the animal statues all over town? The city picked mules, as a nod to the old coal-mining days, and I think I'm the only one who's pretty freaking creeped out by it. It's like Scranton suddenly turned into the place where My Little Ponies come after they die.

My favorite is the one in front of the Times building, which is plastered in newsprint. It took me a while to figure out that yes, it was meant to be that way, and no, a sharp wind hadn't picked up the papers covering the bums sleeping in front of the courthouse and stuck them all to this one mule.

Then again, maybe they had. Maybe the artist was an incredibly lazy git who set the mule statue in front of the courthouse, doused it in Krazy Glue, then sat on the far end of the block and turned on a really, really big fan.

Packing

Look, I know I'm a spoiled rotten brat. I knew that a long time ago, so it's not like having the evidence so blatantly shoved in my face should be all that much of a surprise.

No one in their right mind needs six garbage bags full of clothes, a crate full of shoes, one bag full of purses, and another full of coats. No one. Not even Sarah Jessica Parker in the first fifteen minutes of "Sex and the City".

The first sixteen ... maybe. But only if she's performing in concert with Cher.

YES! (Trimmed for TAR spoilers)

( These guys )

just got eliminated from the Amazing Race. Have now reached a level of happy I'm guessing neither one of them has felt in the last decade. Well, not without ( this. )

*user Cabbage-Patches around the room like a hyperactive nerd*

(no subject)

Just realized, after both spotting this quote on metaquotes and taking a peek at the Harry Potter section on the Pit of Voles, that if I were still in the catechism class I had when I was a kid, I'd be arguing every week with the sister that God had to have created the Harry Potter series. After she'd shut me up one too many times, I'd probably have shown up the next week with printouts of BDSM Draco/Harry MPREG in one hand and my prepared twenty-page statement in the other.

Hee. I always loved screwing with the clergy. They liked it when I did that, though. I was cute. And small. And had ... short ... hair ...

Jeez, I hope they didn't think I was what I'm starting to get a mental image of me looking like at that age. 'Cause ewww.

Excuse me. Now have to go have head-to-toe shower in manner of Karen Silkwood.

(no subject)

Paco and I have had a talk. Or rather, we had a one-sided lecture, seeing as how Paco's ... you know ... a car and all, and unless I wake up later on and he's got vocal cords or a rad K.I.T.T.-esque talking computer added onto him, our conversations are going to involve me lovingly cooing to the steering wheel like some deranged vehicular lemon fetishist.

Ahem.

Aaaaanyway, the bulk of the discussion involved my setting up some ground rules for the trip to VA. I could have sworn he moaned and groaned at a few of them, but as Paco is the car and I am the owner ...

Huh. I said that like it actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.

So, I digress. Here's what we (okay, I) established --

1. Paco is not allowed to look at cars that have died on the side of the road and then look to me with great big puppy-dog eyes, practically begging me to let him switch places.
2. Paco's dashboard lights are not allowed to light up so often I feel like I'm in the final round of a game of Simon.
3. While Paco is allowed to play the "Lookie me! I'm changing the volume!" game with the CD player, he's not allowed to switch the radio station over to polkas when I try to put in my Chicago soundtrack.
4. Paco is not allowed to proudly alert his presence to any local police, unless we've suddenly burst into flames or the T-1000 is hanging off our trunk and trying to kill me before I lead the human resistance against the machines.
5. Under no circumstances is Paco allowed to die on the way to VA. Okay, unless, of course, he does so right in front of a limo with Johnny or Orlando in it. Possibly both, preferably making out, and most definitely looking for a third.