optimist drowns in half full tub

this entry will suck cause I don’t have some stupid theme.

change. life. profound reflection

shut up Jaime, you’re stupid and half drunk all the time so stop being so fucking reflective.

GOD

I made burgers for dinner tonight even though I’m the only one at home.  I contemplated giving Gordon a patty, but then decided I am much too poor to be throwing away good, fresh meat like that.  It’s the fucking depression at my house, man.  I put three dollars in change in my gas tank tonight and watched the little gas pointer thing just baaaaarely reach enough height for that stupid, orange, plaguing gas light to go off.  I’m hurting for cash like bad like fuck like man like omg I’m going to lose my car and everything I’ve worked for so I can keep this shitty editing position where the new EIC likes to pop up on GoogleChat all the time when I arrive for the day and be like

"mornin’! lets work real hard today! gettin a little behind! 🙂 r u on opps now?"

And I snarl at the stupid Instant Message and her stupid fucking smiley face emoticons and lack of SPELLING WORDS OUT even though she’s the EDITOR IN CHEIF. But my Office Mate tells me to take a deep breath and just be agreeable and so I say

"yep. on opps. will start editing when finished."  And then I’ll go make some green tea.  Because it’s the morning.  And I make tea in the morning.  And sometimes, I even check my email before I start working.  And she is, like, a million months fucking pregnant and I think, while standing in front of the microwave waiting for my water to warm, how she probably should have aborted that child.  I read her blog about "supporting the troops" and it’s a fucking crime to our company, society and the writing profession that that pregnant piece of smiley faced emoticon bitch is my boss.  And that she’s making spawns.  I come back to my desk with my steaming cup of tasty tea and notice a new IM from her

"Let’s pick it up. Hannah has been here since 8 and she’s done about 200 opps, you’ve only done 1."

At this point I proceed to type out my fucking morning routine to her.  I’ve been there ten minutes.  I wait for my computers to start.  I sign in, I clock in, I go make a tea, I look for something on NPR to listen to.  It’s not horribly time consuming it’s just my fucking morning routine you god-damn-knocked-up-on-my-ass-all-the-time-poor-grammared motherfucker.  Or fatherfuck, whatever.

She says something like

"oh okay, Hannah is just quick."

Or something irrelivant and not engaging.  She wants, for some reason, to compare my speed of copying and pasting website links to the other girl who apparently is, like, SO FAST and copying at pasting website links.  Fuck her man, I am such an awesome editor and she is continuously making me edit affiliate articles which SHE IS SUPPOSED to do and yet she wants to give me shit about how I’m slow about opening OPPS.

You don’t get this if you’re reading it, it’s shop talk and you work somewhere else probably way more reasonable, but I still would like to punch my boss in the stomach and watch that dumb "support the troops" child slip with a splash of a water out of her big ass vag and fall bloody and face first onto the office floor so I can go

LOL

but whatever

Office Mate says I need to stop talking back and just nod my head and always be super excited about everything.  I think he’s got the right idea considering he’s going to be the acting EIC when Dumbfuck is pushing an illegitimate child from her uterus.

sigh. fucking sigh.

I keep applying for better jobs and getting turned down.  Fuck the economy and legitimate college education.

I miss the boyfriend.  He seems to be having a calming affect on me lately rather than an uncalming affect. 

Monday the 17th I am performing at the comedy show.  Oh yes, standing on the stage spewing out a street poem about the dude I lost my virginity to.  I’m scared and keep going over the scenarios in which I would bomb horribly, no one would laugh, and I’d stumble off the stage drunk off cheap vodka gimlits searching for the boyfriend to take me home, defeated.

Everyone fails at performance art at least once in their life, right?  Right.  Why not do it drunk then?

Ah, fuck you diary.  I’m tired of making cohesive entries.  This entry is totally eratic just like everything in my life and every thought in my fucking stupid head.

The other day I went to Taco Bell for lunch with Tech Guy and Office Mate and Office Mate opened the door to my backseat, and noticed the abundance of crap I had back there; board games, desk lamp, empty beer bottles, ripped up newspaper, a number of sweaters even though it’s summer, and he’s like

"Jesus Jaime, your backseat looks like I imagine the inside of your head looks."

All over the place.