I like my job for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I meet a lot of interesting people. This university attracts students from all walks of life, from across the globe, which is pretty awesome if you like celebrities and foreign people, which I do! And even though everybody’s got their panties in a bunch because Tom Hanks’ son is doing his undergrad here, I couldn’t care less because I just had the pleasure of meeting a very famous singer. I swear I’d helped her find three books and two websites on finance interview preparation, none of which pleased her, before she revealed that she had, in fact, WON ASIAN IDOL TWO YEARS AGO.
She didn’t give me a chance to say, “Of course! I knew I recognized you from somewhere! You are the most talented Asian I know! What are you doing at a business school in Illinois, U.S.A.?!” She immediately and without any hesitation revealed to me that her passion is SINGING. That evil Mommy-san and Daddy forced her to go to B-school, even after her triumphant victory over every other singing Asian in greater Asia, even after her tour of Asia with Asian Idol. “It’s not like-a I even wanta to BE HERE,” she said, and slammed a book back onto the shelf in the wrong place.
Then she got mad that I wouldn’t let her use my computer to check her Gmail. I guess you can’t have it all.
I was fifteen minutes to work today, which isn’t a big deal or anything. My boss is pretty busy walking around the office telling everyone how hard I work, anyway, so she doesn’t usually notice or care when I step in a couple minutes late. Unfortunately, there are some people who are really really put out of sorts when the train is late.
Today the train was late because of an accident involving a fall (or a jump, which is usually reported as a fall for a couple of days). The point is that some poor jerk made contact with the filthy, wet, stinky, and highly electrified tracks in the gloom below the platform, which is a shitty way to start your morning. The trains all had to share whatever tracks they could get, as power was shut off so the poor jerk could be peeled off the tracks and sent to the hospital to be pronounced one way or the other. Everything was slow, and running behind, and basically not where anyone expected it to be. When my train finally came, the stuttering conductor saw fit to let us all know that the reason for his lack of punctuality was “a accident involvin’ somebody jumpin’ on the tracks” downtown. So naturally, the entire car erupted with gasps and everybody started telling everybody else exactly what they thought about mass transit suicide. That’s when the lady behind me piped up to anyone who would listen:
“Why people always gotta kill theyselves durin’ rush hour? I know thangs is bad, but they ain’t THAT bad you cain’t wait until lunch time. Lawd.”
She proceeded to call all of her friends and let them know just how inconsiderate she thought it was to kill yourself during rush hour. She revealed during all three of these phone calls (on her pink Razr with BabyPhat charms dangling from it) that she had actually found out about the suicide only a couple minutes after it had happened, on her alarm clock radio, which is when she decided to roll over and sleep a little longer because the trains were going to be “all messed up and shit anyway.”
Ahahahahha! Total cunt.
Basically all you’ve got to do is a Google image search for “cutest cupcakes ever.”
If you happen to be in Japan, you should do a Google image search for “cutest cupcakes ever,” only in Japanese. And you’ll get this:
Someday I will build a cupcake library, in which I will preserve one of every type of cupcake ever made, along with metadata to help future cupcake artists with their research.
I can do this kind of thing because we live on a fantastic planet, and it is covered with stuff that’s cute as shit.
God DAMN I wanna eat that tiny toast made of frosting SO BAD.
My best best friend friend Patrese has started a blog about how much she loves Christmas, and Christmastime, and pretty much all things Christmas-y. I support her endeavor because I am a good friend (thanks, thank you…stop it!) and because starting in October it’s really cute to watch her get all ramped up for the birth of little baby Jesus and then celebrate it by buying every little baby Jesus she can find and gluing it to her front door.
OK well, so she hasn’t done that yet, but I think this might be the year.
Anyway, I think Patrese likes Christmas so much because her family always made it into a big sparkly happy soiree full of love and Sunday gravy. Which is so cute I want to poop glitter turds and Sweet Tarts!
I’m indifferent to Christmas because my stepdad celebrated by screaming at me to get the fuck out of the Goddamn tree before I fucking ruined everything. Then my grandma took too many pills and had a meltdown because some bitch at church wore heels she didn’t agree with in the Christmas cantata, and my cousins cried while they watched us open our presents because my aunt loved God too much to buy things at the end of December. Then they told us we’d probably be going to Hell because of the Play-Doh Snack Shop.
Shit. If I’m going to Hell for a toy, it’d better fucking be the baby blue plastic four-door ’59 Caddy my slut of a Barbie used to roll around the living room in. That would be worth it.
I finally figured out a way to spill Arizona green tea in my hair and make it look like I meant to do it. Holy hell, I smell like the stairway to Heaven. Or Arizona.