Right, then. It's Friday once again, and it's truly a lovely one at that. Of course, Friday is by definition a lovely day, so I guess it goes without saying. But I said it anyway, so neener.
Oh! And I spent the afternoon building an addition to my little House of Pain here. Well, I added a guestbook, but it's the same thing. You may access said guestbook through the bottom link in the table at your right, there. You should know that this book is for nice people with nice comments (well, relatively). Anybody with invective to spew can just go stick it, because we're not even gonna play that game. You're out like pegged jeans if you mess like that. Anyway, I put in the guestbook so I could proactively dialogue with my faithful readers, and utilize corporate buzzwords while I'm at it.
Sheesh. I've been looking at my date's picture, and damn is he hot in this snapshot. It makes me want to rethink my previous position of non-romantic feelings. Seriously, Jessica, I'm sending this to you so you can see what I meant when I invoked the power of the Vartan.
Anyway, I've decided that people who can't spell need to take a purge. I don't know why, but it's a serious issue with me! I mean, I can have all the respect in the world for someone, bu the minute they start confusing 'to' and 'too', it's all over. Worse yet are the ones who screw up 'too' and 'two'. That's just unforgivable.
Of course, I am being something of a hypocrite. I misspell shit all the time -- take one look at some of my past journal entries for evidence of this (like the time I tried to write 'idiosynchrasies' and it came out 'idiosychracies', or the time I left the 'd' out of 'pseudo') -- so I don't exactly have room to complain, but my syntax embarrasses me as deeply as others' irritates me. There's just something so careless, so sloppy, about it. It doesn't take much effort to check up on that shit, you know?
Says the guy who didn't check up on it till just recently. I'm a piece of work, aren't I?
Another thing I can't abide is careless lyrics. I mean, songs should be an art, you know? Even those pop confections that are all about having fun and hanging out with your friends. There's no need for shitty songs or crap-ass throwaway lyrics.
Take, for example, LFO. I mean, first of all, A)! Second of all, LFO, people! And B)...no, forget it. No B. The first two cover it.
Seriously. I declare Shenanigans on LFO, and demand retribution and punitive damages for time I spent listening to lyrics like Shooby-doo wop and Scooby Snacks/Met a fly girl and I can't relax. Like, what the hell does that even mean, 'Shooby-doo wop and Scooby Snacks'? I swear, the very existence of such a phrase, the thought that someone somewhere sat down and deliberately picked out those syllables and placed them in that particular order, is enough to twist my cerebral cortex into an Eye Splice.
I mean, the worst part is that it solely exists as an antecedent rhyme to set up for the following phrase, "Met a fly girl and I can't relax", which, let's face it, is not such a brilliant line that it excuses the extreme abuse and misappropriation of the English language that immediately preceeds it. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because that line is out there somewhere, sucking like a black hole.
Also, the indignities of this job are really beginning to mount up. I mean, it's one thing to ask me to fix the copier because you can't figure it out, but it's quite another to send me out on moronic errands that you just don't want to do yourself because you're lazy. Dolly showed up this morning, all doubled over in "pain" -- which, of course, increased whenever something untoward happened to anyone else in the office, like, heaven forbid someone else should get any attention today. She was so "debilitated" that she couldn't even walk back and forth from the fax machine. However, you should have seen her haul ass out to the parking lot and toss Miranda's 75-pound overnight bag out of her trunk like it was a sack of curly fries when it was time for her to leave for her doctor's appointment.
Oh, and the reason I saw her playing Harlem Globetrotters with Miranda's luggage? Because Miranda couldn't be troubled to walk down to the parking lot and get her own crap herself.
And any time this phone wants to stop ringing is just fine with me. I just fielded a call for Amelia. Never mind the fact that there is no Amelia working here. Never mind the fact that the girl on the other end of the line seems to think my name is 'Salad', which is a really creative re-interpretation of the text, if I do say so. And I do.
Anyway, if I don't get off now, I may still be sitting here typing away at 5:30 when these idiots that seem to come out only on Fridays are still calling for information.
I take it back. Fridays can suck, two.
