The e-mail.
At work.
Has gone crazy.
The last two days have been filled with busy signals, undeliverable e-mails and me, in the corner, ripping out my hair and foaming at the mouth. I think that the Internet is mad at me for having a blog when I know close to abso-FUCKING-lutely NOTHING about technology. It’s striking back, I tell you! AHHHHHHHH!!!!
Seriously, we’re all starting to get loopy around here. That is never good.
Help me.
As if I ever had it. This is my quick moment in the day to say that though I like the new job, and am very happy, and it’s full of puppies and laughter and babies and candy bars, RIGHT NOW I WANT TO SCREAM!
I just want to take this moment to say, publically, I AM NOT AN IT PROFESSIONAL. NOR DO I WANT TO BE ONE. GRRRRR!!!
Therefore, when our old friend the Internet goes down for the zillionth time in a week, don’t call me. Ever. Even if it’s just to say hello. Or to tell me I’m beautiful. Or to give me a million dollars.
I repeat, GRRRRRRR!
Today I woke up feeling like a truck had run over me in mid-REM sleep. After my sister succeeded in hooking me on to Rock Star INXS (I was sooooo close to going home, and then, BAM! My butt was back on the couch) I headed home full of Diet Dr. Pepper, popcorn, and brownies we stole from the children. I was a happy Megan.
But every good thing comes at a price. The rock and roll gods are punishing me for watching a great band go primetime, by making the caffiene keep me up ALL FREAKING NIGHT! Then I woke up with that fun “truck” feeling.
So today, because I’m exhausted, I spent part of lunch visiting some old friends who kept me off life support in the past life’s crappy ass job.
I missed you, Old Friend.
The shitty thing about a brand-spanking new job is when it’s amazing and awsome and fun and you get good vibes from all your co-workers and you actually enjoyed going to work you no longer have anything funny to tell all of your closest friends on the Internet. I’m sorry Internet. I wish I could say that my new job made me want to vomit all over my desk and call the Suicide hotline, but it doesn’t. I was officially home at 5:15 without the ever-present urges to poke my eyes out with a dull, unsharpened pencil. Gee, I’ll miss the misery.
Actually, I WILL NOT FUCKING MISS THE MISERY! I’M FREE AT LAST! HOLY HELL!
OK, I’ve now taken a shot of whiskey and calmed myself a bit. As mentioned above, the new job is the absolute SHIT! Though I’ve never been more tired in my life thanks to Mr. Tom Petty, The Heartbreakers and the evil Verizon Amphetheatre Parking bonanza, I was up a bit later than usual. Some people may say it was irresponsible for me to go to a concert where just entering the venue implies an immediate contact high. To those people I’d like to say, kiss my dog’s hairy ass. Let’s just leave it at that.
If you’ve ever wanted to know what massive amounts of blond hair does at high velocities…
Jeeps. Fun, but bring a hat.
