I Really Intensely Dislike Pain

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.

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