Worst. Protein bar. Ever.
Sweet god, that was bad. Uh. Cardboard. Yuck. I bought a whole fucking box of these yesterday, shit. I need to switch these out. Bah. Blech.
OK, OK, I'll go back to playing Antz or something. Wonder why corporate America turns people into zombies? Because they either 1) hire people to do boring, lifeless jobs 2) pay people to sit around waiting to do boring, lifeless jobs.
Just pulled a pricing sheet for the NYC project off the printer. Oh, please, put me on a plane! I'll go anywhere. Do anything. I'll pay 120K for Law School in order to flee from brain death.
As fine as it is for getting paid to do nothing, I have trouble writing at work (I need loud music, and my best writing time is 7pm-2am, so this is a fucking crap shoot, with all the distractions, though I keep opening shit up and staring at it), so all that "great" writing time is for shit, and here I am blogging about absolutely fucking nothing and throwing away a really, really shitty protein bar and going: yea. Money's good.
My brain will die a slow, painful death. It will not be pretty. It will involve bad protein bars.
Ack. Back to opening up story files.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Worst. Protein bar. Ever.
Older piece by Pollitt, very good:
A long time ago I dated a 28-year-old man who told me the first time we went out that he wanted to have seven children. Subsequently, I was involved for many years with an already middle-aged man who also claimed to be eager for fatherhood. How many children have these now-gray gentlemen produced in a lifetime of strenuous heterosexuality? None. But because they are men, nobody's writing books about how they blew their lives, missed the brass ring, find life a downward spiral of serial girlfriends and work that's lost its savor. We understand, when we think about men, that people often say they want one thing while making choices that over time show they care more about something else, that circumstances get in the way of many of our wishes and that for many "have kids" occupies a place on the to-do list between "learn Italian" and "exercise."
Had a dream last night that 1) I was a Supah Ninjah stealing magical artifacts from an archeological dig. Lots of snow caves were involved, and bright spotlights. 2) I was part of said archeological team and having an affair with the lead archeologist, a rather twitchy, dorky guy who finally had to push me off him with the immortal words, "I'm so tired" so he could go back to crunching some sort of ancient archeological puzzle numbers. That troublesome architect from work made an appearance as one of the archelogical team who burst into the lead's place while he and I sat over coffee and bagels and debated ancient puzzle numbers. Upon seeing I was clad in nothing but a towel and quite obviously banging the lead acheologist, the architect broke into a frustrated wail and stomped out of the room.
It occurs to me that I could have an entire blog full of nothing but batshit dream entries.