|Is it 5pm yet?
||[Sep. 18th, 2009|10:31 am]
Holey Moley. |
I tried that without the "y" on the end of Moley, because I wanted to do a food pun. But then it looked like I worshipping Moles. So I put an extra "e" in Holy, since, by default, I make fun of religion, but then it just looked like I had a defective Mole. With holes. Which made me sad, because moles are sort of sad anyway. But then I thought of my dermatologist appointment last week and then went from small grey burrowing creatures to imminent cancer and all the fun dribbled out the holes so I put an "e" and a "y" on everything. In case you were wondering. Maybe I'd better try again.
Sweet Cheese of Jesus, I hurt. Is it the damp, the cold, the stress? I don't often whine (do I? It always seemed like legitimate complaints. But okay. Be a friend and tell me to quit yer whining this weekend. Just make sure I've had a cider first and am not packing my cutlass) but today, I feel MADE of whine.
This week has wrung me out. Used me up. My resiliency is kaput. As in, you know that time you were desperate for a rubber band because you were an idiot and took the rubber band off the lobster's claw too early and now it's chasing you around the kitchen, all snapping and lemme tell you, those claws have some grip, and you're fumbling in the kitchen junk drawer, throwing all of those spare keys that neither you nor anyone else in the house remembers what they go to, and who the hell has time to go door to door with a handful of keys trying them all out, but thank goodness they're there, because now they're holding one pissed off crustacean at bay....and hallelujah, there's one at the very back of the drawer and you hold it up triumphantly in front of Gargantua the Lobster and you stretch it out in preparation for banding that waving claw of pinching death and....crack, the goddamn rubber band is so old that instead of stretching, it just cracks and falls into pieces and bits of you are found strewn about a very large, very sated, albeit dried out lobster. Although better that lobster than this, I think: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/jersey/8246001.stm
Yes, THAT rubber band. That's what I feel like. When you make joke about how you think you've successfully "killed" a problem, one that's eaten up hours of time, simply because no one was willing to rely on common sense (or trust me) but needed a whole spreadsheet and graph-laden dissertation...and your boss responds with this e-mail: "Never turn you back – never close both eyes at one time – always walk with a friend a night...nothing at CompanyName EVER dies or goes away."
I guess at least I don't feel crazy as in ALONE crazy.
It'll be fine. But when your psyche feels like that stale rubber band and then you go to stand up out of your chair and most of your joints contract like a fresh rubber band and hurt as if said fresh rubber band has been snapped against your skin...sigh.
On the plus side, I get to spend this afternoon prelim testing the bursting strength of disposable gloves. Water balloon time!