i cannot talk to the people downstairs.

Okay let's talk about social skills for a minute.

My social skills. Or lack of.

See, I'm basically a pretty intelligent human being. I read oodles of books and keep updated on current events and I'm empathetic. So you know, you'd think I'd have the ability to make basic conversation with pretty much everyone with whom I come into contact.

And usually that's the case. Especially after I knock back a couple of beers and start chatting up randos for the hell of it.


Because I'm social too, see?


I'm social and I'm at least minimally smart and booze gives me courage, so I'm all kinds of fun to be around. I make friends faster than people grow alarmed and reactionary over global pandemics. I'm not actually sure about the last part.


I'm contagious. I'm a pandemic. PEOPLE LIKE ME. You're getting this?


Cool, because now I'm about to fuck up everything you think you know.


I AM SO AWKWARD IT HURTS ME. Sometimes. Like I said, not always. But you know, enough that it's a thing.


This isn't like an omg I need to be medicated because I'm crippled with anxiety or omgz I'm standing in the corner at a middle school dance waiting for someone to talk to me because I'm the new kid.

This is like. Ugh. Let me describe a scenario. And before I do I just want to say that maybe this is all just the biproduct of a little too much inner dialogue, a little too much sobriety introversoin.

So I work at this job right. I'm part of the upstairs people. There are five of us. We handle paper shitstorms and tap on our computer keys and basically wreck our vision and insure ourselves carpel tunnel later in life for approximately eight hours per day. Also we're not really encouraged to make any noise of any kind. Ever. I've got pictures of my loved ones hanging in my cubicle and a space heater under my desk, I'm a sweater over the back of my desk chair 'just in case' away from frumpy at this point. Oh my god, I almost forgot. We also give ourselves papercuts a lot. Actually, that might just be me. Really not vital to the story.

Anyway.

Then there are downstairs people. These people are not chained to their cubicles for eight hours a day and they're allowed to talk to each other. They wear actual business clothes and make an effort with their hair. IN FACT, many of them don't even have cubicles, but rather, OFFICES, WITH DOORS. Doors that can be closed. Who knows what they do. I don't, because they have the power to close their doors and shut out the world. Also, they often have 'meetings' at other buildings so they get to get into their cars and drive away and be elsewhere for a lot of the time. They converse with people in ways that aren't limited to passive-aggressive emails. They sell things. Or something.

It's all very confusing. Probably because of all the closed doors.

I feel a great deal of resentment toward these people, naturally, because they are allowed to talk and they have offices with doors and they get to drive away and they make more money than I do despite the fact that as far as I can tell they are basically bottom feeders with superiority complexes and not as smart as I am.

I'm not for sure on the intelligence level, just a prediction. But I mean, I'm almost always right. Take that as you will. Plus they aren't really that nice to us upstairs people and kind of all all-important. Like we're their minions and we have to drop everything and help them anyway, so why should they bother learning how to use the color copier? When I'm over here thinking "Oh my god, seriously?" And a lot of other pretty bad stuff.

Oky, here's where my awkwardness comes in.

I think I've lost the ability to converse with these people. It just slipped through my fingers one day and now it's gone. I can't/won't look them in the eyes when they address me. I'm actually really jumpy when they talk to me at all. I don't address then first. Ever. One of them said good morning to me this morning in the kitchen while my back was turned and I was pouring my coffee and shit went everywhere because I was so startled. Well, coffee went everywhre, but you get the idea.

It's gotten to the point where I walk downstairs to get more coffee and take routes back upstairs that don't have me passing anyone. I actually avoid coming into contact with these people.

I'm sure they don't set out every morning to leave me feeling inadequate every time we speak to each other, but really, that's what I get out of it. I've lost the ability to interact.

I walked past two ladies about my age downstairs on my second trip to the coffee machine this morning and I just smiled into space as I walked past them. I mean, I don't want to scowl like a bitch, but I don't want to talk to them either. So I guess looking like a maniac is the obvious solution for that.

WHAT IS GOING ON WITH ME?

I used to be this crazed, confident, devour the world person and now I cannot even look the people that work downstairs straight in the face?

This place is bad for me.

Thank G I'm only here three more months.

And I've already started to fantasize about what I'd like to say on my way out, but I would never probably actually say because it's riddled with curse words and really not prudent.

But you know, that's a post for another day.

how to get through a Monday morning

 Hit snooze only once for best results.

 

Pad toward bathroom in complete dark so as not to disturb sleeping boyfriend.

 

Start shower water. Brush teeth while it warms.

 

Ease into water. Keep it colder than enjoyable to stymie possibility of taking any longer than humanly necessary. Ponder rapidly disintegrating fucked-up dreams. Decide they're too weird to share with anyone today.

 

Moisturize. Moisturize like crazy. Fret over impending wrinkles. Deny, deny deny.

 

Check facebook/email. But just skim. You don't have time for this.

 

Blow dry hair. Ugh. Get tired/bored of blow drying hair. Put shirt in dryer. Finish blow drying *(#&$ing thick hair.

 

Start your car appox. 7 minutes prior to departure to work, via remote.

 

Grab successfully dewrinkled shirt out of dryer and choose one of 6 actually cleaned, actually hanging-up pairs of work pants. Silently thank yourself for cleaning your room on Friday evening. Curse yourself for not washing undergarments. Scavenge around for a suitable bra. Settle on a least favorite. Feel sense of pride at clean pants vaporize at prospect of wearing a shitty bra.

 

Decide against rooting around for breakfast, no time thanks to the damn bra debacle.

 

Rush outside and discover every window on your vehicle is still covered in a thin but determined layer of frost. Fuck! It wasn't on defrost. Damn it. Turn on defrost. Grab first sturdy flat thing out of purse and begin scraping violently at each window. Realize it's your debit card. Shrug and resume scraping, you don't have any money to spend with card for the next week anyway, it may as well be physically useful.

 

Ease car into the drive. Avoid stopping where not absolutely necessary. Shoot gaps where possible. Dig through bag until mascara is located. Apply at any reasonable time. Ie: various states of stopping and moving.

 

Get first decent look at the bobby-pin job you did this morning on bangs in rear-view mirror. Wince.

 

Re-administer bobby pins three times while simultaneously merging, changing radio station/volume, and answering phone.

 

Redirect attention toward insufficient use of mascara.

 

Greet boyfriend via phone. Go through various stages of morning conversation.

 

Mutter 'What the fuck?' several times at asinine/slow drivers.

 

Perkily answer, 'Nothing!" when asked what you just said by boyfriend. You're working on your attitude.

 

Curse at dropped call at the same spot it happens every morning. Check clock. Brood over a three minute period of time loss caused by missing a green arrow. 

 

Dramatically croon along to "Black Balloon"

 

 

Intermittently continue to apply mascara.

 

Exclaim "I lost you!" when boyfriend calls again. Silently curse out piece of shit phone.

 

Get in right lane to exit highway. Bitch about the half mile stretch spent going 60mph due to "Slow ass mother fucker. "

 

Spritz yourself with scent. Hang up phone.

 

Ease faster than really safe onto the street where your office is located.

 

Scan parking lot as you whip into your spot.

 

Realize your bosses car is missing. Watch hopes fly instantly higher than safe. Feel altitude sickness take hold from said hopes shooting through the roof.

 

Greet coworkers with "Where is _____?" (boss)

 

Exchange pleasantries. Learn of unreported Drs appt.

 

Silently thank universe for a brief extension from boss-induced stress.

 

Turn on computer.

 

Walk downstairs while it boots up. Scrounge around for stray food items/pour first cup of coffee.

 

Welcome to your work week.

debbie downer's got nothing on me

Tomorrow is Monday. 

Which means I'll be forced back to the grind. Which means an abrupt halt to blowing off my responsibilities and pretending like I don't have a real life with real problems.

God, I'm dreading it. 

Conversely, though, I'm craving it. 

I think I may have learned something this week. 

It's simple, but it's taken me so long to acknowledge.

None of those problems or responsibilities go away just because I do. 

So, it's really, finally, time to do something about it 

I've given myself a month to find a new job. And I'll do anything. Probably, almost. What I mean is that I can genuinely see myself getting more satisfaction out of digging ditches than what I'm doing now. I just HATE it. As I type this and the time grows smaller to the moment I will have to force myself back inside those glass doors, up that dim stairwell, and across the floor to my dingy cubicle, my stomach is tightening and churning with dread. 

I hope this is my breaking point.

What the fuck am I so afraid of? 

Everything, I guess. Sometimes I feel like I'm afraid of everything, which is not the mood I was going for upon my transition from vacation life back to real life. I don't feel relaxed, rested, at peace in any sense.

Home, the lake, was home. The lake. It was a right place to be. 

But I'm not right. I'm all wrong. Everything about me right now is all wrong.

And that was the way I felt all week, despite being in my favorite place on earth- An underlining sense of unease. 

There's just so much to sort through rolling around in my mind. 

I  turn 25 in three weeks. 

ugh ugh ugh ugh gahhhhhhh. 

Sara

well, that wasn't very smart

As I've mentioned, I became afflicted with a soul-crushing case of food poisoning this past weekend. As did Manfriend and my mother. Since my parents had three different restaurants cater in food for my brother's graduation party this weekend, it's hard to determine which culinary genius is at fault.

Obviously, I blame my brother. Had he never been born, he'd never have graduated from high school and warranted a grad party that required the services of two more restaurants than my own 2004 soiree. Although, he is a football player, so his army of numskull friends throw back a lot more food than mine probably did.

I also blame him for what's happened thus far this afternoon.

As is common procedure for birthdays in my department at the office, the honoree chooses a place we all order food from and one person fetches it for the rest of the flock. Pretty standard.

Today, the birthday woman, who is otherwise my favorite co-worker, picked a shitty restaurant that I hate, but everyone else seems over the moon for.

Being that I just took on a full-time unpaid campaign job in addition to this joke of a vocation and I had a four hour long training last night for my other volunteer group- I have a shit ton of email to pretend to read and today was also the last day of the week I can get my allergy shot. Plus I just started a new book and I was going to try to squeeze in a couple of pages.

I. Had. Shit. To. Do.

Please don't think I'm complaining either, I crave this flurry of activity and the earned exhaustion of being fully engaged in every ever loving thing I cram into my waking days.

But seriously, every lunch we have together, it's the same stories about one co-worker's family and the same collective awkward of watching each other eat because we don't have anything new to say.

But, I like this broad, so I suck it up and kiss my congestion-free weekend goodbye.

And you know what I ordered on my still-delicate empty stomach?

A fucking greasy-ass burger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake. My regular.

Arguably the worst decision I've ever made. I've been eating healthier for the past several months- Like, where I once would have consumed the entirety of this meal with ease and regularity, I honestly can't remember the last time I hit up fast food.


I've been cowering in my cubicle since the meal wrapped up. I feel like I have food-poisoning again. And just.... blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And a sloth. A SLOTH.

Me right now. Only not smiley because I feel literally within inches of death.

Maybe it was too soon after the illness or maybe my body hates grease now, I don't really know whats going on in there. But it's really not good. Grease and I are taking a serious break.

XO Sare

maybe you'll be a decent parent, Mikey. just not a decent co-worker.

Let me be clear here.


I get a kick out of babies. Baby humans, baby dogs (also commonly known as puppies), BabyBel cheeses- I love them all.




In fact, I adore babies so much that more often than not, when I'm in a setting with an infant human, I go into a subconscious trance where I-must-hold-the-child. Like, pronto. I start speaking unabashedly in the trademark nauseating high-pitched baby voice, saying things along the lines of:


"Look at your widdle bellyyyyyyyy. Look how you can stretch. Soooooooooo biiiiiiiiiiig. Oh! what's that?! Is dat a widdle bit of spittle?!"


High pitched.


Nasally.


Completely beyond my control.


I basically lose all sense of self to those chubby legs and chipmunk cheeks. Why? Because I'm totally fucking down with babies. We just get along. Until they decide they're over me and then I pretty much instantly become just as over them and it's actually kind of almost like an awkward breakup for me.


An awkward breakup where you're so instantly and overwhelmingly relieved that you met at the restaurant instead of driving together because sitting through a fifteen minute long car ride with this nimrod right now would be a fate worse than personally reliving 127 hours.


And that's how I know I'm not ready to be a mother!




I bring this up because I recently had an extremely awkward moment with a coworker regarding his impending spawn.


This coworker, we'll call him Mike because that's his name and I don't give a shittttttttt, is probably in his late twenties. Definitely the male in the office closest in age to myself. To say Mike and I aren't close would be a gross understatement. We basically don't even acknowledge each other at the office unless one of us (me) is about to run smack into the other one in the hallway. I daydream a lot, whatever.


It's not because we hate each other, either. We just don't come into contact... ever. We've both worked at the same place for over a year and we've never had a conversation longer than obligatory good mornings at the coffee pot. He never fucking makes a fresh pot when he takes the last of it, so maybe I do in fact have a negative vibe toward him. It doesn't matter. We probably couldn't even be classified as acquaintances. 


NOT EVEN ACQUAINTANCES. 


Practical strangers. 




Last week, good old Mikey Mike MATERIALIZES out of NOWHERE in front of my desk. Where I'm working, or at least pretending to be. 


Mike then thrusts a grainy ultrasound picture into my face and doesn't say a word. 


Um? 




I mean, am I supposed to say something? Because I'm a girl? Because it's the miracle of life? And you made it? Or did you find that on the ground and you're asking me what to do with it? 


Because you're a goddamn practical stranger and I have no idea what you're trying to pull, buddy. Showing up in front of me with a picture of a tadpole and no greeting or explanation. 




Cue crickets. 




"It's a boy baby." He finally uttered, finitely. 


"Uh? Congratulations." 


I felt so put-on-the-spot and taken aback at the same time. Probably like on Wheel of Fortune where the final contestant has to pick three consonants and a vowel that aren't RSTLN or E. And then they pick shit letters and get no assistance and don't solve the puzzle in the alloted ten seconds and WASTE THE CHANCE TO TAKE HOME A BOATLOAD OF CASH. 


Only there was no boatload of cash. Only a couple of awkward Sally's and a bad snapshot. 




I kind of felt inadequate as a woman, but really, what was I supposed to do? That picture probably meant a lot to him and he was probably prouder of that grainy little baking seed than he's ever been of anything in his entire life. I think that's awesome, Mike might make a decent dad after all. If he ever learns to be a team player and brew fresh coffee when he uses the last of it. 


But, it meant decidedly nothing to me. Nada. I'm not a mother. I'm not trying to be one for a long time coming, god willing and the creek don't rise. Maybe he pulled that same shit to every woman in the office because we're supposedly nurturers and we just love that stuff. It's just not me. And if he knew me AT ALL, he'd know that. 


But all Mike really did was show a stranger an indistinguishable blob and make things really uncomfortable. 


So, I guess- Kudos to you for the strong swimmers, Mikey, but I'll be actively avoiding you from this point on thanks to that little stunt. 


Happy Weekending, all!


Xo Sare

thanks, part 3.

Looks like this lovely feature will live to see another week.


The letter below is addressed to my dear friend Devin, who now lives in Chicago. We met at work and he pretty much got me through the first five months at my current job.  




Hey, D.


I'm smiling while I type this right now because I feel kind of silly about it. But let's get it rolling, shall we?!


Remember the first time we hung out away from the office? Thanks for suggesting that. Tennessee beat Ohio State, it was March Madness,  we were alumni rivals and pretty much instant friends. It was a shitty game and I was bitterly disappointed and you started singing Rocky Top right there in the bar in Indianapolis. We barely knew each other and you were yelling throughout the place and cursing at your players and we settled in as friends that very night. Mutual respect, or something like it.


What a gamble though, you know? That transition from work friends to real friends can be a dangerous game. Not for us. The office where we met and the job from hell, it brought us together- so I guess I can't hate it too much. That place is brutal, though huh? I'm still wasting away in my little cubicle cell and you've got two moves under your belt since then. It's fantastic that you keep growing, fighting tooth and nail to get to your professional goal, it reminds me that I need to fight off looming complacency at every turn.

Remember the email thread? There were periods of time I spent more effort crafting responses to the thread than I did on work. Like, long periods of time. Thanks for the bullet points. Thanks for the morning greetings, the promises that it would be a great day, the onion articles, the laughs. Thanks for all of it. I wouldn't have fared without you to prod me along.


I like having a friend that I can relate to, who grew up with a father also in this industry. The constant travel, the moving around. Serial transplants. It's probably why we get along so well, always having to make new relationships sort of forces you to learn how to talk to people, make fast friends. Thanks for getting me that way,  for being able to relate on that level. Charismatic fathers and cocktail hours, we're alike in so many ways.

There's something to be said about strong personalities; at one point we'll be having a casual conversation about anything from sports to politics and before I realize it we're shouting over each other to get a point across. In a public setting. Causing a scene. Per usual. It's never conflict driving our conversation, it's excitement, interest, passion. Thanks for bringing that to the table too, it feels good to have heated and animated conversations. It feels good to have someone give it back.  


You wear your heart on your sleeve and expect the best out of me. You hold me to it. Thank you, truly, for that. And when I'm down and doubting myself and deeping worried that I'll never get out of here, you remind me how smart and talented I am. You tell me how I'm meant for more and encourage me to reach out and take it. I'm so grateful to have such an eloquent friend with so much faith in my abilities. Even when I'm hating myself and lower than low, you will take the time to raise me up, no questions asked. I only wish I can be there that way when you need it too.


Dev, you make me feel cool, and so important. You want to hear what I have to say and you make the effort to stay in touch with me when I'm busy getting swept up in the bullshit of my everyday life. I'm sorry, so sorry, that I'm so terrible at making sure we're still always on the same page, all caught up on what's going on in our own lives. I feel terrible when I miss you or forget to call you back. And then I let too much time pass and I feel even worse and guilty and avoid it altogether.  I feel absolutely horrid that I didn't have the time and energy to drive over to where you were to see you this weekend when you were in town. You would have made the effort. You're always willing to make the effort.


I miss that. I miss getting beers with you after work, sitting outside and taking about our families and our goals and our hellish workdays and the motley crew of our department. You're one of the best and I know you've literally never had an ulterior motive to get ahead. You do things the right way, the fair way. Life is so goddamn unfair, thanks for showing me the good ones can still end up on top. And you'll keep moving up, too. You're a hardest worker I know and you've earned every bit of that cockiness you throw out sometimes.


At the risk of getting overly emotional and sounding idiotic, I want to thank you for being so bold and in life's face. You're always fearlessly wearing your heart on your sleeve and being your this-is-what-I-expect-and-deserve, but also  let-me-help-you-self. You've never once complained to me about how hard it is for you to get around, with the exception of the "Really? You people don't have any fucking handrails? This is a goddamn death trap." Comment last spring after a couple of Beams. I can't imagine how much you've gone through for your CP, and still, it never rules your life or defines you as a person. You'd be damned before it ever did. You've got such a big personality, a great personality, that I often times forget all the shit you've got to deal with on a daily basis.


You're stronger than I'll ever be, thanks for showing me such a forceful strength in spirit. You'll always be one of my best friends, no matter how often we see each other or how frequently we find time to catch up with one another. I'm so grateful to be able to safely say that.


Thanks for coming out, you always bring all you've got.


XX Sara

silver lining? my pee is clear.

My job is easy.


Like, if not for fear of electrocution, a beaver could simultaneously build a dam and do my job successfully. OK, I really don't like that analogy either, I'm sorry. A dog. A dog could do my job. Let it be known that I adore the entirety of the canine species, but we don't keep dogs around for their smarts. We keep them around because that tail a-waggin' is such a candid expression of joy that giving them a pat on the head is completely undeniable. Dogs are loyal, and bad ass, albeit dumb.


A dog could easily do my job.


Which is probably why I don't particularly care for the way I keep myself in the black, so to speak.



I loathe my job with the heat and fury of 100000 suns.



However, having a job that requires so very little actual brain power has its perks. Very FEW perks, but still, they exist. Minimally.


For example, despite the fact that my boss seems to get his kicks out of treating the workday like an eight hour criminal lock-down, I get to spend an undue amount of time worrying about things that in my normal, everyday life I wouldn't even really consider, let alone set aside actual moments for. Such as hydration. I can honestly say that I've never been as well-hydrated as I am at this particular, peculiar point in my life. It's almost a compulsion. I fill up two water bottles, I drink them. I go back downstairs to the water-cooler and re-fill them. I drink them. Repeat for eight hours. My piss is clear. It's fucking almost water-clear. It's phenomenal.


Thanks, job. I don't give you enough credit for forcing me to find valid reasons to leave my desk as many times a day as possible. The water distraction is two-fold because it also makes me pee about 23874387 times a day.


Another reason to leave my desk? I'll take it!




Also, I must say that my nails and hands have never been in such great shape. Being that I stare down at my hands the majority of the time that I'm not staring at the computer screen in front of me, I've really taken an interest in putting my best hand forward. I moisturize, A LOT. In fact, I even have to take off my ring to do this task, so it takes a few seconds longer. If I look down at any point in the day and my hands look even the least bit parched, I stop everything I'm doing to attend to lotioning them up. Equally as important, my nails and cuticles. I thought those movies and shows I saw as a child where ladies working at desks are always picking at their nails were just to make them look worthless/trashy/lazy. But really, it's because it's true! I have almost an entire manicure kit in my desk.

I feel at this rate, I could someday be a potential candidate for a hand model in a national commercial. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but I like to set my sights high.

Finally, I spend OODLES of time staring at the computer. I'm the kind of person that's interested in almost everything... but I'm a bit absentminded, and I take a slightly ADD approach to life. AKA I'm always stumbling upon giant piles of awesome that cause me to go "WOAHHH, man, I gotta read/listen to/buy/see THAT! And then I wander away and can never quite remember where I saw it or heard of it, or what it was called, just that it was rad and I forgot and I'm an idiot. Seriously, a lot of my life is that whole song and dance. HOWEVER, since I'm basically confined to this desk all day, with an UNLIMITED amount of post-it notes and ink pens, I've developed a strategy! It's called writing it down AS SOON AS it happens to strike my fancy, whatever it is that I've discovered. I've got more interests and interesting things to tamper with then I even have time for! Tiny scraps of paper everywhere!

Plus, my cubicle has a window.


I know, you're still jealous about the pee thing.


HYDRATE, fools!

XO Sare

jump for joy.

Since I'm not feeling textually inclined today, I decided to post an image illustrating my mood.



I've been foiled by google images, and I'm not happy about it.


Let's just say when I searched "crazy intense emotional rave party," the first image is an anime rave. Not my cup of tea. I mean, it probably could be, if I had the right outfit and was in the correct mindset, but it's not really expressive of my current mood.


However, my boss is on vacation for the next ten days, so "crazy intense emotional rave party" is actually exactly the vibe pulsating through my veins.




OK, ok, I've tried again. This time with "the best feeling ever." Surprisingly, this image is safe for work and not completely off the ball.

Kudos to these folks for not slamming their heads together and knocking each other out... then the the google search would have to be "absolute worst feeling ever."

See you tomorrow, maybe.

XO Sara

underachiever.

I've mastered the art of working minimally.

And honestly, it makes me hate my life exponentially less than when I was actually taking seriously any of the 238743874 passive-aggressive work emails I recieve daily. I'd spend hours reading into the hidden meaning of a snippy email and equally as long crafting a perfectly-worded and ultra-professional, abeit bitingly snide, response. To someone I'd never met. And never would. And who probably didn't give a shit and hated their job as much as I hate mine.

So finally I came up with a radical idea.


FUCK IT.

This new thing I'm doing, this underachievement kick I'm on, has actually resulted in me no longer feeling overwhelmly drawn to only the items in my refrigerator that contain a high alcohol content when I get home from work in the evenings.  


There's only one problem, the guilt. Now, I know I could attribute this southward pointing moral compass to my Catholic upbringing, but I kind of feel like that guilt probably could have been better used in other factions of my life, and it never managed to materialize before, so it's out.


I think my guilt stems from one basic fact, I'm a chronic overacheiver.


To me, everything is about winning. (bahaha C. Sheen is crazy.)  But seriously, I can turn anything into a competition. EVERYTHING. Yes Manfriend, I can move my hand faster than you can move yours when we're side-by-side, brushing our teeth. Oh, hello fellow gym-goer.  Yes, I did in fact casually glance over at your speed on the treadmill to insure that I'm running at a higher speed than you are, you're not just being paranoid. I don't even really like to let my nine year old brother beat me at games. It's sick.

He's just a child!

I'm so good at being efficient and working hard that I don't even really have to think about it, it comes naturally. Listen to me, talking about working hard like it's a good thing. It's a plague, really. For a person as utterly neurotic as myself, constant attention to every. single. detail. is. exhausting.  Manfriend will be lying in bed, ready to start a movie and I'll suddenly have the unsatiatiable desire to start a load of laundry, wipe down every kitchen surface, and scrub the bathtub.

I just have to have things my way. And my way is always the hard way. Usually.

So that why slacking off at work didn't start until age twenty-four for me and it's taken me nearly a year to perfect. I've even worked hard at slacking off. It's gotten to the point that not only do I spend the majority of my day not doing work, but I honestly put more effort in the theatrics of looking productive than it would take to actually switch to completeing a work-related task when my boss walks by.

OF ALL THINGS. OH, THE IRONY.


Sure, I've slacked on things and cut corners in the past, in a broad spectrum of areas in my life. In fact, this winter I went so long between routine shaving that my legs actually transitioned from scratchy to furry. I had furry legs. Gross.

But never at work, until now. I'll even occasionally take almost the last of the coffee and scamper off without brewing a new pot. The ultimate screw you.

For me, there's no point in working hard anymore. Last week I had my one year review sit-down-awkwardly-make-conversation-with-my-cripplingly-socialy-stunted-supervisor. He said verbatim, "I wish I had a couple more like you." And then he apologized for the raise freezes and encouraged me to steal company time. I mean, not 'steal,' but in so many words he told me I could schedule appointments and leave early if I needed to and we'd "work around using my PTO."

BOOYAHHHHHHHH.

I'm still winning, and more importantly, I'm doing it while slacking. And being rewarded for it. I think I'm starting to feel that guilt lifting.


Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.


XO Sare

my body is at war.

So, hey.

There is such a thing as having zero dignity left, and I've been there. Recently.

It's called a 24 hour 'bug', and it always wins. You see, even the strongest of intestinal fortitude can't stand up to such a formidable foe.

This little virus proclaims "I will fuck with all of your plans, and there is nothing you can do about it until I'm finished!" And it's right and it's serious and it makes even seeing a picture of any sort of food item make you scamper to the bathroom to kneel to the porcelain god.

Without going into all the details, I've been expelling bile from every viable hole in my body for the past 36 or so hours. Neon yellow.

It's ugly.


ANYWAY.

Since I actually have less than a second of spare time this week to deal with illness, I'm back at work today. Partially because I discovered yesterday that daytime television is teeming with commericials for the elderly, unemployed, uneducated, and those in need for personal injury lawyers- None of which is my own personal demographic. And partially because if I didn't come to work today, I'd be burning ALL the PTO time I've managed to accrue. ALL OF IT.

Nothing bums me out more than realizing that I actually give one good goddamn about accruing PTO. Ok, well maybe a couple of things, like when someone eats the last granola bar and leaves the box in the pantry. But, nothing about my own character.

But, um, no way I'm wasting my precious few hours of paid escape on being ill.

So, yeah. Awesome.


Also,


I'm taking the GRE in the morning.

I should definitely be freaking out about that right now, but it turns out that slipping while you get out of the shower because your center of gravity is out of whack and falling on your ass, causing you to puke all over your soaking wet, naked, miserable self is sort of distracting.

Here's hoping I make it to the exam.

XO Sare