Actually, I know exactly where I'd like to put it...

Sorry for the lack of updates. Look at me: slacking already! Man, I have thought of so many things to write about, but investing the time just hasn't been feasible recently. Between toiling away for Satan's minions so I can (barely) pay my rent and trying to maintain some pathetic semblance of a social life, blogging has fallen by the wayside. I could say it won't happen again, but I don't think either of us would be fooled.

I don't know why I'm apologizing. The three people who read this probably couldn't care less one way or the other (BTW, that IS the correct phrasing. "Couldn't care less," people. Learn it, live it, love it or I will be forced to punch you in the babymaker. If you COULD care less, that means you care. Get it? Do you? Sorry, just another grammatical pet peeve of mine).

You will be happy to know that I have recently taken to scrawling down stream of consciousness notes to myself about things possible future blog topics so I can blog about them when I have time. Basically it's just a piece of paper full of cursing and vitriol about the people I've been encountering lately. So, in short, should I meet with an untimely demise and someone like a cop or paramedic finds my crazy notes in my purse, they will assume I am rucking futs, as Sisterson would say. Hee. Maybe they wouldn't be that far off base. So, what I'm trying to say is although I haven't been updating, I've still been writing with the intent of updating. Who loves ya, baby?

In other news, there is a bright and hopeful light at the end of the narrow, dark, fetid, soul-sucking, mind-numbing, dank tunnel that I like to call my employment at Bureaucratic Printing Company. I don't want to talk about it too much and jinx it or anything, but suffice it to say that my lovely and talented friend Buffalo Gal has an opening in her department at work and thinks I would be a great addition! Plus, it's a different type of job in which I would be able to use my brain (yep, I've got one) and some of my creativity and passion for writing (I have some of that stuff, too. Seriously). So, keep your fingers crossed for me, or something, because I am about to lose my damn mind at BPC and it's not going to be pretty.

I think I've mentioned that I keep getting retarded administrative tasks from people like the dread Sally Stretchpants and it's really fucking boring and lame and not what I signed on for at all. If you need an administrative assistant, I suggest you find one because I am done with that shit and grossly overqualified. Anywho, continuing in this vein, I was given the delightful project of copying old-ass, coffee-stained, smelly, crumpled up, probably used as a rat's toilet paper files this week seeing as we're undergoing an audit. We're talking stacks of paper as far as the eye can see. Fun stuff!

Let me start by telling you about the ri-goddamn-diculous Mickey Mouse piece of shit copy machine that we have. Now, one would think that as I work at a printing company I would at least have some decent printing equipment to work with. One would be wrong. I think it's safe to assume that this artifact was deposited from the heavens and the office building was constructed around it because this shit? Is old. No, older than that. Older. I swear the buttons are labeled in cuneiform.

It does not collate, people. It. Does. Not. Fucking. Collate. So, if you'd like to copy something with more than one page, this beast from Hell will deposit a stack of papers for you in the complete wrong order. As in backwards. For you to put into the correct order by hand. Well, isn't that efficient, not to mention convenient? That is, if it doesn't jam all to hell every single time you try to copy something (which, of course it will) and make you open every orifice on its evil copier body before it will allow you to print again. Oh, and that job it was in the middle of? Yeah, you're going to have to go ahead and start from scratch 'cause it's all fucked up now.

Y'all, I have worked in a lot of offices over the last seven years and I have seen a lot of shitty equipment, but I have NEVER seen a copier that does not. Fucking. Collate. I mean, are you kidding me? I'm pretty sure the guys who invented the copy machine realized right away that if they could just get the paper to come out face down on the receiving tray rather than face up, multiple page documents would already be in the correct order. Like magic! Except really fucking obvious. So, what I'm trying to tell you is I believe I am working with the prototype for copiers that Indiana Jones unearthed while in search of the Holy Grail. And I had a date with it that would probably last me several days. Needless to say, I was stoked!

So, about hour eleventy into my own personal hell, I'm collating shit by hand and I've got papers everywhere and Mama Celeste comes over to the printing room to send a fax. I had set my tea on the only table in the room, near some printers, but not in any kind of precarious position by any means, so it was within reach for me to pick up and mutter bad words into occasionally.

Mama Celeste is all, "Stepchild, you're going to want to move your tea into the other room." Then in a slow, almost confidential tone, as one would use with a child or someone with Down's Syndrome, "This is elec-tro-nic equipment."

Omigaw, really? Electronic equipment? You don't say! I thought this stuff ran on batteries and like, hamsters on wheels or something. Of COURSE I know that this shit is electronic. That's why I'm not flailing about or balancing my mug on the paper tray or draining pasta over the scanner or peeing into the printer. I'm a grown up now and I'm even allowed to drink grape juice in the living room. And eat on the couch. And run with scissors. I keep my tea next to my computer on my desk every goddamned day and have managed to avoid disaster thus far. I think I can handle it.

Oh, and while I'm at it, I have more work experience than you do and just because you're old and think you can mother and nag everyone who's younger (even if they hold a superior position to your own), does not mean I take orders from you. I don't recall popping into this cruel world out of your womb because, oh, that's right, you're not my mommy. That condescending tone you just spoke to me in may be cool for scolding your twelve year old, but I'm just going to strain an eye-rolling muscle and possibly pop you one in the mouth.

Plus which, I can actually think of a much better place to move my pomegranate white tea to. Like up your raggedy ass, you patronizing bitch.

Now shut your piehole because if I spilled on this hunk of junk copier and fried it, corporate would be forced to pony up for a new one and I'd be doing us all a favor. Jesus.