At work, I sit in a corner cubicle. I am drinking Gatorade and naively hoping it doesn't stain my tongue blue but I know the damage has already been done.
Cleaning out my closet. It's hot and I'm convinced that every bit of extra material or source of clutter adds an extra layer of heat in my room. It's also time to clean out my closet of everything I'd be embarrassed to be wearing in a car accident.
The winds of change are upon us. The bright and hot July sun of Southern California may have blindsided you in forgetting that they come around this town. Why is it always the cool ones that leave LA ? It's never that annoying old bag that looks like E.T.
Still dragging my feet.
I'm two Advil deep and completely spent - it's not quite five o'clock yet.
Maybe I should start taking St. John's Wort. It's sitting in my kitchen cabinet. The problem with consuming something like that is the fact that it's called Wort.
Shut Up. And Listen.
It's fun to answer the phone when someone cuts you off to ask you something you've already answered when you said your name. No one listens anymore. Everyone just wants to hear themselves talk and cut you off and make you anal enough to blog about it.
Why is it that people can't stop yakking these days ? There are five old dudes standing outside my apartment window every night, smoking and yammering the night away. This happens about five or six nights a week, guys in their 30s-60s range. They stand on the sidewalk in the front of their apartment building, which is adjacent to mine.
COTW
DOTW
