Food Addiction.

You know you're a food addict when:

The thought of a chocolate cupcake from the break room make you positively salivate.

Or does that just make me a chocoholic?

Better than an alcoholic I suppose.

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhggggggggggggggggggerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

My Don't-Give-A-Fuck

(This will make a little more since if you read this, and maybe this.)

Has turned into downright mutiny.

I-don't-wanna, I-ain't-gonna, You-can't-make-me, Just-fire-me-already, Caine-style M.U.T.I.N.Y.

We got a game plan e-mail today. I have to be at work two hours earlier than usual on Monday, at freaking 8:30 in the morning on Tuesday and Wednesday, ad then at 2 "until further notice."

The 8:30 days are for training purposes. Watch me and my subversion. Just you watch.

I don't want to "learn" a "new" way of doing things, just so we can revert back to the old in six to eight weeks. I don't want to listen to that balding bitch-witch babble on and on about inconsequential, bureaucratic bullshit at 8:30 in the effing morning for four effing hours.

I have never felt such animosity for a job, or a boss, in my life.

Urg, grr, grumble, piss, moan, dig in the heels, and then beat the fists on the floor.

(And no, I can't just quit and move back to Houston tomorrow. I have a freaking lease.)
(did I mention I'm moving back in with my parents in August. Parents and batshit-fucking insane sister. Joy and rapture.)

My Give-a-fuck

Six months ago, if you had asked me how excited I was about The Big Move, I could not have vocalized an answer. Just nod and smile in overwhelming exhilaration.

Ask me that today, or maybe tomorrow, and I might shrug my shoulders. Meh.

And that makes me so very, very angry.

Hustle and bustle saturate my work environment. The shelves are nearly bare and overfilled boxes abound. In two weeks, and at the very most by this time next month, we (my co-hortsworkers and I) will be livin' it up in the new digs, with literally thousands of brand new, spine unbroken, possibly shiny, fresh-from-the-publisher books around every corner, and enough space so that I never have to see, hear or smell the Train Wreck.

Eric is practically drooling at the thought of this place and that guy doesn't get excited about anything. Okay, anything of remote importance.

Gregk, were he not so mired with the actually moving mudanities, would be shivering he tight little ass off in anticipation.

Bill can't wait, neither can Crystal, or Whitney.

But try as I might, I can't give a shit. I've dug deep, too. I really worked at it. But since all this crap hit the fan, I've been too busy trying to pry the eight inch serrated blade out of my spine to care about much else.

There are work place politics, and then there's my job. See, when they can't fire you, they have to get very creative in how they make you leave. And by creative I mean dirty, underhanded, two-faced, backstabbing techniques and slight of hand. And just the slightest little thing, sometimes one may not even know what one did, can set off a chain reaction that would make Mount St. Helens look like a fucking sneeze.

See, I don't know how this got started. Okay, I do know. But it's not really important anymore. It's happened. It's over.

And I just don't give a fuck.

sigh.

Something, Anything!

Because I am B-O-R-E-D. Bored.

All I wanna do is play some sudoku (and get that damn Sheryl Crow song out of my head. Shut up, because now you have it stuck it your head too.) But I can't because my pseudo-boss is still here.

And my God I have so much to blog about. Maybe I'll do that when I get home.

And it's Friday, during Lent, and I'm Catholic, and I want a freaking cheeseburger.

A humongous grossout.

If you insist on dipping in public, please have the polite foresight to dispose of your unwanted, chunky brown saliva in something other a clear plastic bottle.

Please?

Common sense

If your child is playing happily but not necessarily quietly, yelling at him from the other side of the library is not going to help.

Just an observation.