(no subject)

Ick. I hate feeling this gross and disturbing in that once-a-month kinda way. Gyah. I could use a shower like you wouldn't believe. My brain keeps telling me I need a "Silkwood" shower, but I keep smacking it and telling it that we don't feel that gross.

Is it entirely wrong that after I get out of the shower, I'm going to call the temp agency to double-check and make sure my job's still there, and I keep hoping they say the shipping company realized they only needed one temp or something (which it kind of seemed like they did) and they'll get me another job? Not that it's a bad job, it's a good job and they're nice people and it's only six hours a day, but it also involves being on the phone half the time and I hate that.

I also feel as if a small alien creature is going to burrow out of my stomach any minute now. And I don't think he likes being on the phone, either, damn it.

A random thought while reading Emmy stories ...

You know that thing about writing, how when you get to a certain point and you run out of plot, you send two guys through the doors with guns?

Do you think the "24" writers are eagerly anticipating when that happens so that they can send the Frog brothers onto the set and scare the shit out of Keifer Sutherland?

After a hard day at work ...

About the phone thing ... look, I spent seven months as a telemarketer, all right? Seven months of blood, sweat, and lost brain cells dealing with people too stupid to just say "NO" and hang up a phone. That means, according to some stupid rule, that I have "good telephone skills". Apparently, "good telephone skills" are in short supply, since if it involves calling people and harassing them, I'm the perfect candidate.

Let's establish something right here and right now -- just because I can do something doesn't mean I want to do it. Theoretically, I can french-kiss a pit bull, but you don't see me going to underground dog fights and making goo-goo eyes at the snarling competitors.

That said, one more pet peeve to bitch about -- on-hold music that sounds like the bad piano player in a lounge act. If I'm sitting there minding my own business and doing my damn job, and all of a sudden I expect to see a little trolley drive past on its way to the Land of Make-Believe, that's not good.

Oh, and if anybody buys me this, this, and/or this, I will be your official "Get Out of Celibacy" card for at least the next year and a half.

Yeah, so I already have sex with you people all the time. At least now, I'll be decorative and socially conscious while I put out.