Good evening reader, I write to you from beneath the plastic hive that is my hair dryer. (Let us hope that one's brain is not frying with the contents of one's increasingly "au naturale" follicles.)
Today I spent maybe, and I do mean maybe, 1 hour working. The other 7 hours consisted of me marveling at the wonders of the opposable thumb. Yep, you've seen me, caged in cubby # ____, kee-kee'in' randomly in various tones and pitches intermittently throughout my day.
I am not complaining, because its' the nature of my job -- ebb and flow -- and you know I am certainly one to go with the flow. So today I sat, chatted up anyone and everyone, surfed the Web and really wished that instead I could afford to live the life of an artist.
And by then I was starving and so it was lunch time. I ran for the border, because it'd been a long time since I'd devoured a Mexican pizza, and then I crept back into my cubicle -- like a Mexican who had for real crossed the border -- and grubbed on my non-diet-approved meal.
I even heard someone call out, "I smell fast food."
I hope they enjoyed the aroma as much as I enjoyed the awesome smack of that greasy good cheese.
I can't remember what I was originally going to talk about because it's time for me to go to bed; plus, Mags is watching The Passion of the Christ (again), so I can't really concentrate on writing anything when so much suffering is taking place in the room -- my droning seems beyond trivial, trite, banal and unworthy of the few chuckles I imagined it would have mustered.
I don't think there's ever been a movie that has taken hold of every emotion in my body and left me so ... so ...
spared.