How can you tell that your brain needs some motivation to make it into work? You pour yourself a little paper cup of mouthwash and instead of rinsing with it, you throw that thing straight down your gullet like shitty tequila. And spend the next 2 hours lamenting the fact that your coffee tastes like Fresh Mint.
My subconscious brain was immediately remorseful, and my conscious self, having not been fully awake at this point, with immediately awake and resentful of my subconscious brain.
My work week thus far has been little islands of piddly administrative tasks peppering a big ol’ ocean of “Avoid the Boss until his next vacation.” Which is in eleven days. And yes, he just returned from his last two. Meanwhile, I have 75 hours of vacation, no money to go anywhere fun, and I’d never get away with a staycation either. Somewhere in this world there are companies that don’t hate their employees and don’t operate their business with the sole purpose of turning their employees into murderous hate machines, but this is not one of them.
Seriously, I was driving home from an appointment where the couple was 20 minutes late (on purpose, in fact – they didn’t want to leave work early) and I got stuck behind the longest train this state has ever seen where I actually put my car in park, pulled out my Kindle and read 5 chapters before it passed. Meanwhile, I’m technically on overtime that there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever be paid for with no actual lunch break, and then I got cut off by some douchenozzle who sent me into a downward spiral of rage and bottle throwing, followed by random tears. And I can say with absolute certainty that it wasn’t PMS, because I’m medically incapable of that.
In summation, I hate my job with the deadly passion of an enormous star on the verge of supernova. I’m only ever half kidding when I make jokes about rage quitting. Sadly, everything hiring right now is seriously light in the paygrade, or I’m grossly overqualified. My life – fuck it.
During one of my islands of “look busy,” I went virtual purse shopping. Now, let me start by saying, that I give about half a constipated bunny turd about purses, shoes, and other accessories. I am thoroughly convinced that every purse toting female of this species could stack, pile, and intertwine their fully loaded handbags and it would create a wall so impermeable that Genghis Khan would have an existential crisis. That’s how serious women are about purses. Me? I’m all about utilitarian function, with a side of cute and classic, and the other day I decided that my perfectly good, sturdy purse was no longer functioning adequately for my needs, so I started looking for a new one. And of course, I had to drag Queen Inappropriate into it.
Me: I kinda want this purse, but it looks like it would be huge. I’m kinda scared.
Queen Inappropriate: That doesn’t look big to me.
Me: It’s literally twice as wide as my current purse. Now, I know that doesn’t mean much because my purse is tiny. Honestly, I think I’m more afraid that I’ll fill it with a bunch of shit.
Queen Inappropriate: My purse is giant but I carry a daytimer, a makeup bag, my phone, iPad, sunglasses case, and 2 wallets. I need a big one.
Me: I have my flat wallet, my RFID card case, my glasses, my phone, my kindle, and my flat manicure set.
And some lotion and lip gloss.
And a pen.
And a mini brush.
And some advil.
Fuck me, I’ve become my mother.
Queen Inappropriate: HAHAHA
The strange thing is that the last time I saw her, my mom was carrying a purse smaller than mine. The universe has gone straight to hell.
Can’t say it wasn’t a productive day…