Oscillating Between Extreme Discomfort and Extreme LOLz

When your co-worker makes 105k a year and does not know shit about her job, it's infuriating (by the way, I work in research, so that's a shit ton of money). First of all, where can I find a job like that? Second of all, what sexual activities does it require of me? Ok, that last part was in jest. But you know what can make you feel better? When another co-worker picks up her phone and the screen pops up to reveal, "1:15 do kegels."

Passive Aggressive Monday: Your Face Is Ugly

Ok, maybe that isn't so passive aggressive. But it is 10:18 PM and it's shanking bitches time. You know how when you and your co-workers are giving oral presentations on books you've read in your usual semi-circle around the filing cabinet, and the one bitch who reviewed Us Weekly calls you pretentious because you said Roald Dahl is awesome? I called her out on it, but I stayed classy and didn't throw in some red herrings like her slut past or daddy issues. But the next time she gives me hick attitude (I should know because I'm fifth generation hick), I'm taking a shit on her keyboard. 

Access This, Slut Face

Work sent me to a two day workshop on Access this week. The highlight of the workshop? This conversation -
Instructor: "Now you can make the report header yellow."
Student: "Will it print yellow?"
Instructor: "Do you have a color printer?"

Oh yeah, that New Years resolution I was working on? I failed several months ago and have given it up entirely. From now on, I reserve my smiles for attractive people. Which, at this moment, is the only hot guy at work. And maybe that cute guy on my morning bus route...I hope he's at least 18.

"You Look Fancy"

I work in research where there is no dress code, so my standard uniform is tennis shoes, skinny jeans, and my black fleece North Face jacket; the middle class Asian look (you would understand if you've ever been on the 28). But lately, I've been trying this thing where I dress for the job I want. Apparently, when you show up to work in a dress and a blazer, it means you're looking for another job and prompts your co-worker to ask you if you're wearing underwear. I'm not really sure that the latter means. 

Freak Outs And Hot Pink Pills

Last trip I took was to Vegas early last year. I had a freak out on the way to the airport because I had forgotten to bring the Benadryl. I broke out into a sweat and started yelling erratically. My boyfriend can attest to that. But you have to understand that I suffered from insomnia in high school, and I will do anything to prevent it. I can honestly tell you that I do not remember the last two years of my high school career. It really was that awful. Finals, college applications, sleeping in desolated hotels, itchy sheets, and the floor of my friend's apartments brings on the worst bouts of insomnia. Other stuff too, but let's save that for another entry. So fuck yeah to a tiny, hot pink pill if it can put me to sleep. The downside is that I don't dream. Actually, I must dream, but I have no recollection of it. Now, before you think I have an addiction to Benadryl, let me assure you that I don't. I only use this lovely antihistamine when I travel, which is about 2-3 times a year, which hardly qualifies me as an addict. Besides, it's a totally ridiculous notion that one can be addicted to Benadryl.

Eat Your Cancer

My New Years resolution? To fucking smile more. I hate to admit this, but I'm terribly vain about my youthful looks. I've been applying sunblock religiously since I was 17 and almost all of my hobbies are conducted indoors. However, at the same time, I had cultivated this bitch look that's reserved for MUNI rides. Unfortunately, my bitch face has become my everyday face. I don't know when the transition occurred, but it probably has to do with my anxieties about being a grown ass woman with grown ass problems. How is this even related to my New Years resolution? Well, at a recent holiday party at a friend's home, a complete stranger assumed that I was 25. I was horrified! I thought to myself, "25!? Don't I look 18 anymore?" I spent a couple weeks pondering what is it that makes me look my age? The bags under my eyes from stress and lack of sleep? The blotchy, colorless skin? The nude patent pumps? The Banana Republic blue collar shirt? No, none of those possibilities because I've decided that it's my bitch look. True or not, I believe that if I can turn that frown upside down, I can magically erase the sagging lines at the corner of my eyes and lips. Actually, I should probably add sleep to that list. Oh, who am I kidding? I need to quit my fucking job.       

Tequila Dick

In high school, I would write words, phrases, and conversations in my notebook in hopes that it could become material I could use for my short stories and novels. After numerous failed attempts to complete my fictional biography, I stopped. I thought I would pick it up again for shits and giggles. So here's a couple random conversations I've had in the last week or so.  

Me: Did you know that there's tequila that comes in a skull shaped bottle?
EP: It also comes in a penis.
Me: That's what everybody needs - tequila filled dick.
D: They're called Mexicans.

Me: How are you like when you drink?
M: My friends say that I'm bitchy.
EP: I think when we drink we become an exaggerated version of ourselves.
M: I totally agree.