Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Oh, look, more sappy shit

My day started sucking the moment my alarm didn’t go off. Possibly because I failed to turn it on, but let’s not get into the blame game, shall we? And why the fuck did I have it set so much earlier than usual anyway? Dipshit. That’s what I get for fucking with it.

I missed my run which means I have to make it up on Sunday and I hate that shit. Sunday is my day to forsake the Lord and lounge my lazy, unholy ass in bed until I damn well please, then get up and rush to Denny’s just prior to the parting of the Red Sea when the bible thumpers swarm every goddamn restaurant within a country mile of my good for nothing, don’t-wanna-drive-that-fucking-far-on-a-Sunday ass.

But back to me, it didn’t get any better when I walked outside and the pine tree pissed a pint a sap into my hair. Ever touch pine sap? If not, I recommend you don’t. Should pine trees not fornicate in your area, try super gluing your fingers to your ass and you’ll get an idea of what it’s like to touch the shit and then attempt to wipe your hand on your pants. There are only two things that remove pine sap: kerosene and the passage of time. Neither of which are going to happen before the market opens on this lovely dawn of the Sears/Kmart merger. Ever since analysts foresaw Kmart’s bankruptcy request, I’ve been cramming it down my clients’ throats by the fistful. “Eat it, motherfucker!” Yeah, now who’s your daddy?

Back. To. Me. So I drive my unmotivated, sappy ass to the office just to walk in and see balloons tied to my assistant’s desk and a small group of people wishing her a happy birthday. Fuck me running. Now I remember why I needed to get up earlier than usual. So much for that. Now I’ll have to resort to the “I’ll take you to lunch” cop out. I was hoping to talk Jazz into a nooner today, dammit. What’s it been, 48 hours? Man can’t live like that. It’s not right. Look at what it did to Jack. He ain’t been right in years.

I got an email this morning from Jasmine asking for my debit card number. I told her she’s good, but she’s not that good. That went over like a lead balloon. Fortunately, she was well aware of the fact that I’m an idiot long before we started dating. I’m weird about emailing info like that so I wrote it down and dropped it at her desk when I went for coffee. About ten minutes ago a bouquet of frilly looking flowers whose name I can’t spell, chrysanthemums (thank you MS Word), arrived for Sarah with balloons and a gift certificate for the mall from, I'll be damned, ME! I suspect Jasmine got me back for the “you’re not that good” comment when she ordered them at the going rate of no-holds-barred. I’d complain, but who the fuck would pity me?

Time to go wash my hair in the men’s room sink again.