Long time no blog.

Why, happy T-giving, dear readers. It's been a while and I have some thoughts to share with you.

Beer shits suck. I've taken several today. And the farts that precede them are downright . . . well, they're just wrong, that's what they are. However, 'twould seem cheap beer leads to fine darts-playing so beer shits are the price to be paid. So be it.

I spent the night with a chef a year and a halfish ago. I didn't sleep with him, much to his disappointment. I think that was when I was trying to be non-sluttish, or at least keep my pants on, for chrissake. At any rate, he was tall, lanky with a nice tan from surfing in the Hamptons where he was a personal chef for the rich. His hair smelled like gourmet cuisine. Wasn't no Tony Bourdain, that's for shit sure. Just finished Kitchen Confidential, which the aforementioned chef had displayed on his plywood shelves behind his bed The tall skinny chef had no personality and was kinda a jerk. Tony Bourdain has personality with a fist that slams you right up your asshole. Not to mention he's quite a good writer:

"Writing anything is a treason of sorts. Even the cold recitation of facts - which is hardly what I've been up to- is never the thing itself. And the events described are somehow diminished in the telling."

And, 'twould seem he's a monogamist, which does the heart good.

It's 4:45pm, the day before Thanksgiving and I'm still at work. With a slight hangover, bloodshot eyes and a Fat Daly-like asshole. Still have to get my dad's mail, pick up my dry cleaning, do laundry and clean my apartment. I'm sure some people don't do these things before they leave town for, in essence, a day and a half but . . . there you have it.

Somebody kill me.

I hate my job I hate my job I hate my job I hate my job.

I want one of the following things: either a job where I need a Blackberry or a job where I would NEVER need a Blackberry. Know what I mean?

Occasionally my superiors dangle little, tiny mini meatballs of additional responsibility/creativity before me. Then they ask me to dub yet another fucking tape. And hand me five fuckups from somebody else because I'm the one who will do it in a speedy fashion.

And the silent Asian co-worker continues to not respond to my email. I finally had to attach a "read" receipt to it. So now I know she reads my email. She just CHOOSES not to respond to it. Even ones marked "sent with high importance" and the fucking red exclamation point. And if she sneezes and you say "bless you," she doesn't thank you. And she certainly doesn't bless you when you sneeze. And if you say "hey, Joanne?" . . . she acts like she didn't hear you.

Selective hearing? Selective emailing? It's a mystery.

I hate her.

I hate my job.

I hate people.

My tits are huge.

Fe is iron

Holy shit, readers. At work, someone needed to know the periodic symbol or whatever for iron. I have no idea why I remembered that. I never got better than a C in any given science course. I got a D in Bio101 in college. Probably had something to do with those friday afternoon games of Asshole, complete with having to hold a vibrating hand massager against my snatchbox. Ah, Billy Register, what became of us?

In other news, Debt Free by 30 has been enormously helpful. Lowering your interest rates on your credit cards really is as easy (well, I wouldn't call it easy as I was humiliated while doing it) as calling your company and laying it out. They have payment plans where they can lower your rate for a year and thus your payments actually lower your balance, as opposed to paying just the minimum with an 18% or higher rate . .. you'd never pay that off! (That's highway robbery, Kad! As Ron would say) In addition, I make my own coffee (thank you, johnnicpn) or hit the machine at work, keep oatmeal at my desk and exhaust my pantry and fridge before deciding to order sushi with my debit card. I made the adult decision of staying in Weds night rather than eating and boozing out downtown, even though it would have been a blast. Although, to be fair, I was tired. And sometimes I walk to and/or from work (30+ blocks each way), benefitting both my plump thighs and my not-so-plump wallet. The inspiration for all of this? Recently started using Quicken and once you add the numbers up, well, you gotsta do something, no?

In short, I won't be debt-free by 30 but perhaps I won't be living paycheck to paycheck quite as much.

I continue to come up with possible secret lives for the mute Asian chick who sits across from me in cubeland. I've decided she's a cold-blooded killer. Her victims never hear her coming and she moves with ninjalike speed and grace.

Good news will work its way to all them plans

Have been full of the wrath and loathing for the past couple days. The quiet Asian in the cube next to mine continues to refuse to speak and I continue to be annoyed. She took the last rather gargantuan slice of artichoke and chicken pizza at the meeting today and gnawed on it tentatively as my mouth watered, watching her not finish it. I looked to the co-worker just to my right, tempted to ask him for his crusts.

Another co-worker continues to assault me with admin work, even though I was promoted over five months ago. She's one of those whiners who says "Can you do me a favor?" and it's not cute. Cuz there are people who ask for a favor and it's like they need a pen. They want you to hold their beer while they light cigarettes and usually one of them is for you. Those people are fine by me. This is a woman who asks for a favor and she's asking you to do something that's not your job while she runs off to her office and cackles loudly into her phone. Somehow she's not doing any work but you're doing hers. Ho-basket. Dirty dirty ho-basket.

So I've been working out. You'd think that might stave off or work off, rather, some of the bitter resentment but no. And I weighed myself on a different scale this morning and I weighed FIVE POUNDS more than I do on my scale at home. So I'm even fatter than I thought! Christ on a bike!

I have an audition for ElimiDate tonight. I have to tell some chick named Monique why I'm single and what are my turn-ons and turn-offs. I should say people named Monique really make me wet in my bathing suit places.