It's been an intense week at work. I come home at night and crash like a bauble-laden Christmas tree falling over, or at least I would if I were a different sort of woman, baubled and big-skirted and tipsy.
These metaphors just never work out for me.
Basically I'm tired. And I've been dealing with a sprained ankle all week. Please don't make the mistake of thinking that some form of exertion is to blame, like vigorous exercise or a misguided, gazelle-like sprint to catch a bus. HA HA HA. No. I sprained this ankle merely by existing. An existential sprain, you could say. Usually those only occur late on Sunday nights when I've had too much whiskey and am wondering why I never took that job on an Alaskan fishing boat. This is self-doubt given flesh. Maybe.
I probably shouldn't be typing this while I'm struggling through the Bon Marche phone menu, because otherwise you would be spared my seething desire to track down the inventor of phone menus and gut them slowly with a dull spoon, and then chuckle contentedly as perky terriers growl and play tug-of-war with the dripping ribbons of their intestines.
Hello, my patron saint is St. William the Bloody, patron of alcoholics, bad poets, and thwarted murderers.
St. Will doesn't sing like an angel, I admit, but when he croons "If my heart could beat, it would break my chest," I go all melty. A lovely sweetie who may want to remain nameless sent me the official Once More with Feeling soundtrack. I have a bootleg of course, but have been pining fangirlishly for the official version. I mean, the cover art alone: wrong, wrong, wrong--and hysterically funny--renderings of the characters. Tara in particular looks like a psychotic muppet, with a red nose, as if she's been drinking just a bit before hiccupping into song. It also has Jossian babble masquerading as liner notes. I love it.
Speaking of drunken muppets, I wish I could show you the spam I just got which shows a ludicrously leering and upbeat woman taking it from the rear by a man who is being "treated like a king" by some sadly wanktastic online porn service run out of a garage by a guy named Ted who will soon be hooked on painkillers and coke and abusing his long-suffering boyfriend. The chick looks a bit like Tara, if she'd been living on the streets for a few years and then went to cosmetology bootcamp with Tammy Faye Baker and found god, but everyone who saw her assumed she'd found porn instead and one day she was offered five bucks to get on all fours and baa like a sheep, so she shrugged and said eh, why not, did some coke with Ted before the photo session, and woo hoo, there you go, I have spam.
You guys should do that meme where you tell me something about yourself. All of you. ALL OF YOU.
Because I have 51 minutes left here at the office and I may not make it.