Today�s treat? Muffins. But not good muffins -- shit muffins. Like, those ooky Hostess� muffin-ettes that are made out of vegetable oil, soy paste, and "natural flavoring", whatever that is. Grass has a "natural flavor". So does manure. Just because you use the word "natural" doesn�t make it a quality product, you guys, the same way that including a French translation of your packaging copy isn�t fooling anyone into believing your stuff is real internationally hot shit.
Like anyone in Paris would be caught dead wearing Wet �n� Wild nail polish. Excuse me, I mean "vernis � ongles".
Also, in unrelated news, Sophie has lost her mind. At least, one can only assume. Perhaps at her end of the hallway, there�s some kind of tesseract in play that affects one�s ability to accurately assess the properties of time in this dimension, but I�m going to say that�s probably a very slim chance. The only other explanation I can come up with for why she gives me ridiculously burdensome assignments, and then fails to realize that just because the edict has left her lips, it doesn�t necessarily follow that the pursuant action has theretofore been instantaneously completed, is that she�s completely snapped her twig and will at any moment be found wandering the halls and knitting a blankie out of dog hair.
Of course, the same could be said for me. Or will be said for me, as soon as I get the hang of these stupid knitting needles. It�s been a rough week, you guys, and my rope is stretched about as far as it will go. I�ve lately begun carrying my stress in my upper back, and I have this knot behind my left shoulder blade that�s grown so big I�m about one bell tower and three stone gargoyles away from starring in my own animated Disney flop. Frankly, I could probably make more money from the dog hair blankie.
I need this weekend in the worst possible way, y�all. This week has just pimp-slapped me like I was a raggedy ho, and it ain�t done with me yet. Oh, and just now? I almost drank a bug in my coffee. I don�t mean that I, like, noticed it at the last second and freaked out, no, I mean that I actually took a sip and then saw it clinging to the interior of the mug where my coffee had just washed over it on the way into my mouth. I don�t want to get all presumptuous and call that The Final Insult, because I actually think I would rather eat bugs than what I�m doing now. Also, as soon as I do something stupid like labeling anything The "Final" Insult, you just know the ceiling will suddenly cave in and crush me to death where I sit. Whatever pleasure I might thusly gain from being released from my duties would be mitigated by the whole �cessation of my existence� thing, I would bet. I�ve never tried it, though, so who knows?
Seriously, you guys! I�m losing my mind! It�s going! It�s Elvis, I�m the building, and that�s all there is to say about it. If I don�t write again, ever, it�s because I caught my brain in a complicated loop of circular logic and didn�t notice until I was halfway home it had completely unraveled on me! Wee Willy Winkie runs through the town! I�ve got fish in my pockets! Do you have any Grey Poupon? Where were you the night of June the 12th? Very large, China!
Somebody send me a drink.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: chocolate banana martinis I Want: Chocolate banana martinis. Yes, plural. I�m Watching: Tru Calling, and seriously failing to understand why it got made in the first place, let alone picked up for a full season, let alone not already obviously totally cancelled all to hell. Despite my love for Eliza Dushku.