F my L!
I’m sick.
I’m snotty and my voice is starting to resemble a phone sex operator who smokes 45 cigarettes a day and takes her daily vitamin with a stiff mug’o’whiskey. (I didn't say I sounded like a hot phone sex operator.) Also, my brain feels like it’s been covered in bubblewrap… and not in a fun kind of way. (I know you were probably thinking ‘That lucky little bitch. That would be so much fucking fun. I’d smack my head against everything all day long just to hear those glorious popping* sounds.’ Not today, guys, not today.)
*I think it’s important to tell you that I first spelled it ‘pooping sounds’. Glorious pooping sounds.
While I realize a run-of-the-mill headcold is something that gets and deserves very little sympathy, I’m going to demand it anyway.
Sympathize with me, bitch!
I’ve killed too many brain cells in my life to be able to afford this sort of mental blockage. Soon people at work are going to wonder if I’ve been spending my breaks taking a stroll with Ms. Mary Jane.
As a general rule of thumb, I try my best to get through the work day using the minimum brain power necessary. This means two things: 1) Out-of-the-ordinary questions can make my face turn as red as a constipated hippo and 2) I stare off into space a lot.
If you’re anything like me, you’ve spent a great deal of time mastering the art of spacing out. Rookies make the mistake of staring off into the far distance, seldom blinking and often, inadvertently, in the direction of someone who is now convinced they’re being glared at. Stupid. Amateur. Don’t do that. If you want to give your eyes a lil’ rest in the middle of the day/meeting/conversation/on the subway, look down, and pretend you’re looking at your phone/newspaper/planned parenthood pamphlet and let your eyes drift off into that sweet glazed-over haven. No one has to know that you aren’t actually reading. If they challenge you, I recommend a swift kick to the throat.
All of this is to say that when I’m sick, my glazed-over haven becomes my permanent expression. Even now, as I’m typing, I’m only half-focused at the screen. If you’d like to consider this a skill, I’d be fine with that.
Despite my crippling illness, I’ve been assigned to sit with one of the (how shall I word this…) slower trainees to try and iron out some of his blatant shortcomings in learning the ropes of the position. While I may not be the most patient person in the world, I’m still (mostly) understanding when it comes to learning. Want to know what I’m not understanding about? Body odor. The big BO. That’s right, folks. This motherfucker stinks worse than Paris Hilton’s cooter and I’m forced to sit 4 inches away from him. All day long.
I can tell that you’re pretty jealous right now. My life is pretty fucking glamourous.
In case you’ve already forgotten, let me remind you that I’m sick. Snotty. Stuffed up. Congested. Booger-y. Before you roll your eyes and tell me to get the fuck over it, there’s a reason I’m reiterating this. I’m sure you’ve all been here before. You’re leaking from your face and no matter how often you blow your nose, it makes no fucking difference. Your snot has set up shop for a second by second drippity drip and it don’t care who it gets on. (Re-read that sentence 3 times and it probably still sounds just as bad and nonsensical.) My point is: When I can barely breathe out of my motherfucking nose and I can still smell your vile eau de stank, you’ve got bigger worries than not being able to click the right links on our website. JUSSAYIN’.
I probably should be taking the day off of blogging to save you all from this horrendous pile of steaming fuckery, but too effing bad. It’s my blog and I do what I want.
Since you can’t see me, I figured I should tell you that I’m also sticking my tongue out at you right now.
Yep.
I’m 12.
