AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 3/01/2004 04:08:00 PM ----- BODY:
I am not fit for man or beast, today, minions. I am being an irrational pig. Today I got angry at my boyfriend for taking Tylenol when I didn't think he needed it. Then he made me a bagel for my breakfast before I left for work and suddenly I was filled with remorse worthy of an axe murderer. This morning at work I was convinced of two things: that my coworkers, to a man, hated my guts. And that the feeling was mutual. Then at lunch I decided it wasn't. But I did realize that there was no way I was going to get through the work day today. No way. I needed a nap first. So I ate a steak and cheese and drank Pepsi, and the caffeine helped but made my entire digestive tract set off Fourth of July fireworks. And that made me really. mad. A lot of things are making me really mad today. PEOPLE. Stop breathing heavily into the phone when you talk on it. Try to control your snorting, snuffling, gorilla breathing for a minute or two, okay???? That new guy at work who talks like the Swedish Chef? Yeah. Definitely came up to me today five times in the space of about twenty minutes to ask the same question. He's lucky he still has his face. I realized something else that can be filed under "I Am Really Weird, No Really:" When in any public place I check guys' baseball caps to make sure they don't have a NYstika on them. It's not like I'd actually confront anyone wearing a Yankees hat. I'm just basically searching for the opportunity to mutter, "you son of a bitch..." under my breath. My hands have been dry all day. I hate that. I thought smoking would make me feel better, that maybe this was just a nic fit. Nope. My brain is broken, I swear. It's just useless right now. I keep forgetting what I was about to say. Somehow, unbenownst to me, my cerebellum has been replaced with a quivering Jell-O mold. And not the tasty cherry flavor, either. The nasty lime-green kind that tastes like Lysol. This guy I was trying to follow up with at work today tried playing dumb with me and first said he hadn't received the quote we sent him even though it clearly went through on the fax machine. So I sent it again. He took his sweetass time getting back to me, finally called me about fifteen minutes ago demanding to order, which is technically good, and to scream and holler at me about how he's "thinking twice about doing business with us again" because it's involved "too much running around," and he could have gone to such and such a place and gotten it set up by now and... And I was like, Congratulations. You have officially picked The Wrong Psycho Bitch to Fuck With Today. What he won was a thorough explanation given in no uncertain terms that we'd faxed the thing to him Thursday, that we'd left several messages since then to confirm he'd gotten the quote, and that he had been the one who'd waited till right now to get back to us, and that we had made every effort to make this a speedy sale. And he said, "Well, then...let's get it going." So he ordered from us. Which somehow made it even more aggravating. And then it hit me like a punch in the gut that I needed. chocolate. Chocolate. Not nougat, not peanuts, not peanut butter, not almonds, not oreos, not ice cream but pure, smooth, rich, delicius Hershey's motherfucking Chocolate. I went down to the candy machine. Reese's Pieces. Oreo Cookies. Peanut M & Ms. Hershey's...but it was Hershey's "S'Mores". Hershey's "S'Mores"??? What the fuck is up with that? A cruel reminder of an outdoor night spent around a campfire after a day filled with jolly hiking and, more importantly, does not so closely resemble hell??? Except accomplished with dozens of chemicals? Goddamn you Hershey's. You sadistic bastards. What. the. fuck. So I bought it anyway cause it was the closest thing. It was pretty good, actually. And I bought a Pepsi and Peanut M & Ms for good measure. I don't want to go on this story assignment tonight. I want more chocolate. I want Chinese food. I want Spare Ribs dipped in chocolate. I want Pork Fried Ice Cream. I want Peppermint Lo Mein. Now. The gentlemen in my audience (as well as in my immediate surroundings) are probably backing away right now with their index fingers forming the sign of the cross. The women understand.
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