Cramps That Hit Above the Belt

I keep forgetting to move my head when I’m at my work computer thus rendering my neck into one stiff drink best served at Crappy Hour.

No but really, by the time I realize I haven’t moved it, the situation is amped to that horrible degree akin to when you realize your foot has fallen sound asleep but you have to nevertheless get up and move on with your life.

Then I move it a tiny bit, centimeter by centimeter, until I just feel decrepit. So I massage the old chum halfheartedly with my ton-o-carpal fingers.

Official drone status? Checkmate.

This pawn got pwned by her own body!
photo courtesy of Flickr and SqueakyMarmot

Morning Buzzkill

The coffee I ordered earlier today tasted like poo. Let’s be honest, all coffee occasionally resembles a vague insinuation to bitter filth, but this was a straight-up call-and-response between coffee & mouth that went a lot like:

Coffee: Hello!

Mouth: No! Poo! Is that you?

Coffee: Here I am again!

Mouth: Help!

Coffee: I can’t heaaaaaar youuuuuuuu…

Mouth: *dry heaves*

Coffee: Yeah! It’s a party!

Mouth: I daresay, my good chap, unhand my tongue!

The only problem was I got the coffee from a girl working at the coffee shop under direct supervision of a manager. If I tried to return the coffee pleading a free replacement for the grievous injury done to my taste buddies, I would certainly get her in trouble of the grittiest kind. So I decided to just throw it away.

it wasn’t that the coffee was missing sugar, but rather, a heart
alternate caption: grounds for a lawsuit
photo courtesy of Flickr and Steve Longus

As I was throwing the vile stuff away, it splashed on the wrong side of the trashcan, proving it was bad both in taste and character. That is to say, it fell on the trashcan instead of in the trashcan. And that, ladies and men, is how I created more trouble for society by trying to stay under the radar.

I think we know how the lesson goes. Give a man a coffee, he’ll wake up. Teach a man to get a coffee, you’ve got yourself a new intern.

I’m not going to apologize for this rambly nonsense. It’s Monday. That’s right. The classic Monday defense. The oldest pity party in the book! Respect your elderly parties. Metamucil mini quiches and all.

I Am a Mourning Person

this morning has been cliche-exhaustingly bad.

* couldn’t get car out of garage. hit both sides and then bumped into another car; however, was going so slow, everything happened in slow-mo realtime–thanks gawdness. (check)
* raining (check)
* mac truck tried to run me off road (check)
* couldn’t park car in parking garage, took 4-5 attempts (check)
* parking delay caused lateness (check)
* creepy barista reappeared. apparently he stopped barista-ing to take another job nearby. upon sight, did not spare me the “excuse me. where have you been all my life?” line. (check)
* nice coworker held door for me as i was coming up stairs. said “i’ll save you the trouble.” then, of course, i trip on the stairs, splashing coffee all over myself and incapacitating my dignity. (check)

at this point i say, alright universe, bring it.