Yesterday was one of those days that hack writers use for inspiration when writing crappy sitcoms. Crappy sitcoms that get cancelled before the first season finishes.
I put my shoes on the wrong feet, and was genuinely confused and alarmed when they did not fit correctly. I seriously considered the possibility that something horrible had happened to my feet while I slept. What horrible thing, I honestly can’t say.
I spent about fifteen precious minutes staring at my computer screen this morning, giggling psychotically over Bunny Suicides. After realizing that time had not, in fact, stopped while I was engaged in this useless activity, I panicked and sprinted to Starbucks for my daily overpriced-but-delicious caffeinated treat. And nearly missed the train.
While on the train, which was naturally packed, a charming gentleman dumped half of his steaming coffee down the front of my white, man-tailored shirt. I’d like to stress the word WHITE in this description. He laughed, and I am now convinced he is the guy who has been submitting all those creepy ‘God loves you, especially if you are a blonde pre-teen girl who likes long, deeply inappropriate hugs’ stories I keep having to read.
Sprinting from the train to the office, I burned the sleeve of my poor, abused shirt with my morning cigarette, which is probably punishment for not working out the past few days.
I slunk into the office, and spent ten frantic minutes scrubbing coffee from my shirt. I was only partially successful, and my shirt adopted a lovely transparent quality which the maintenance guys deeply appreciated. Then I was nearly ten minutes late for the production meeting. By the end of the day, I expect to be mugged by a clown.
And I was just informed that, once again, the editorial meeting for Peeled was moved. Not that I spent an entire evening laboring over it or anything.
Today: Better. Got lots of books, discussed the new Joan Bauer book [my boss liked my suggestions!] and discovered I WAS being paranoid, and nobody was, in fact, pissed at me.
Downside: My feet. I am in such excruciating pain that it’s not even remotely funny. Well, you might think it’s funny that I’m limping like a diseased geriatric, but I don’t. I nearly cried in the Book Room. I seriously think I’m going to have to take a cab home. And as some of you may know, and the rest of you now will, I am a notorious cheapskate. Or, as I prefer to think of myself, thrifty.
So yeah. Work ends in four minutes. I’m going to go home, and read. And drink. Drink a LOT.
I put my shoes on the wrong feet, and was genuinely confused and alarmed when they did not fit correctly. I seriously considered the possibility that something horrible had happened to my feet while I slept. What horrible thing, I honestly can’t say.
I spent about fifteen precious minutes staring at my computer screen this morning, giggling psychotically over Bunny Suicides. After realizing that time had not, in fact, stopped while I was engaged in this useless activity, I panicked and sprinted to Starbucks for my daily overpriced-but-delicious caffeinated treat. And nearly missed the train.
While on the train, which was naturally packed, a charming gentleman dumped half of his steaming coffee down the front of my white, man-tailored shirt. I’d like to stress the word WHITE in this description. He laughed, and I am now convinced he is the guy who has been submitting all those creepy ‘God loves you, especially if you are a blonde pre-teen girl who likes long, deeply inappropriate hugs’ stories I keep having to read.
Sprinting from the train to the office, I burned the sleeve of my poor, abused shirt with my morning cigarette, which is probably punishment for not working out the past few days.
I slunk into the office, and spent ten frantic minutes scrubbing coffee from my shirt. I was only partially successful, and my shirt adopted a lovely transparent quality which the maintenance guys deeply appreciated. Then I was nearly ten minutes late for the production meeting. By the end of the day, I expect to be mugged by a clown.
And I was just informed that, once again, the editorial meeting for Peeled was moved. Not that I spent an entire evening laboring over it or anything.
Today: Better. Got lots of books, discussed the new Joan Bauer book [my boss liked my suggestions!] and discovered I WAS being paranoid, and nobody was, in fact, pissed at me.
Downside: My feet. I am in such excruciating pain that it’s not even remotely funny. Well, you might think it’s funny that I’m limping like a diseased geriatric, but I don’t. I nearly cried in the Book Room. I seriously think I’m going to have to take a cab home. And as some of you may know, and the rest of you now will, I am a notorious cheapskate. Or, as I prefer to think of myself, thrifty.
So yeah. Work ends in four minutes. I’m going to go home, and read. And drink. Drink a LOT.
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