I guess I was a little pre-historic, pumpkin/ At your place this afternoon

I have a litmus test for when I'm getting too complacent and/or antsy in a current job. The subtle nosepicking escalates into not-as-subtle nosepicking. It's a bad sign. I just got caught by one of my co-workers. Thankfully, I think he'll forgive me, given his age (39) and position (not much higher than mine).

So, I'll have been at my current gig for a year, albeit in two different positions, in December. What comes next, I wonder? I'm doing some voiceover work next week but mostly I'm still pretty much just someone's bitch, at the end of the day. Which is frustrating.

Not as frustrating as seeing someone I hate get a listing in Time Out New York's "Comedy" section for something that isn't even a fucking comedy. It's more a play that leaves one emotionally bereft of any kind of hope for the future or humanity or its children. And not in any sort of funny way. Like a miscarriage can be funny, for sure. A dear friend of mine is the product of a botched self-induced abortion. But the miscarriage in this particular play? Not so funny. What does give me hope is now she's giving out free tickets. Which, in short, means: she has no audience. Ha!

I take a sick pleasure in the failures of my enemies. Or, perhaps, since they're my enemies, it's not so sick. Does anyone want to see their enemies succeed, really? If success involves drowning said enemy in a tub of her own fatness and self-loathing while others pelt her with McGriddles and Yoo-hoo, perhaps.