Friday, June 29, 2007

Canada Day Long Weekend

Dear Diary,

It's only 10:00am and I'm dying to leave the office and go home. It's the long weekend and I have plans. I don't know what the rest of these doofuses have to do here, but I have a life. Hello, everybody else here, get a life and start living. This anticipation is killing me. Okay, I said Happy Canada Day to like fifty people already. I ate the red and white cake. Let's go!

I just puked the red and white cake into my cubicle trash bin. I had a ginormous hunk of it, and it didn't sit well, being as I'm bursting with excitement about the long weekend. Oh, and I was twenty minutes late for our meeting with head office yesterday, and everyone is kind of giving me the silent treatment. Here's what went down:

Our meeting room was full with all our staff and five serious looking suits from head office. Charisse was really sick with the Norwalk flu but she was told by Sheila, our boss, that she had to come to the meeting anyway. It was that important. Anyway, I came in from an impromptu extended lunch (not my fault, read previous diary entry), and Charisse was yakking into a brown paper bag and the suits were talking some serious business about how we can all be better at what we do by being more punctual, yada, yada, jabba jabba yada yada. I hadn't even sat down yet and already I was falling asleep.

Everyone went on talking and talking, like I hadn't just walked in late. Next thing I knew, someone was shaking my elbow, real hard, whispering, "Dude, you're snoring." I looked up, and everyone was staring at me weird, as saliva dripped from my chin down to the table. I wiped the sleep from my eyes then, and burped. A big, long, raucous burp from my Top Taco lunch. That's when Sheila told me to leave the room. And that's when I asked, "What did I do?"

"You leave this room now," she reiterated, murderously calm.

"All right," I replied, nonchalantly.

Everybody went back to their stupid meeting. They soon saw me through the glass of the meeting room as I picketed the hallway outside with a handmade sign, chanting, "What do I care! My boss isn't fair! What do I care! My boss isn't fair! I had a doctor's appointment. I almost died. My doctor needs tweezers to check it all out."

My sign read, "This place sucks! Bigtime! I hate this place! Oh yeah, that's an understatement, if ever I heard one."

Sheila was soon out of the meeting room, calling me into her office. Once she shut the door behind us, I immediately offered, "I'm sorry if I made you look bad."

SHEILA: Are you kidding me? I have a good mind to call security.

ME: You're the second person who's told me that today.

SHEILA: What is wrong with you?

ME: I just hate that I disappointed you by being late.

That's when I broke the picket sign over my knee, and got a little teary-eyed.

ME: You're fair. I'm sorry.

Sheila just stared at me, speechless.

SHEILA: Are you ready to come back to the meeting?

ME: Can I just stay in here and nap? With the door shut and the lights off? And maybe you guys could be a bit more quiet with your little meeting.

SHEILA: You're coming to the meeting now.

I started bawling then. I don't know why. And I bawled all through the meeting too. I just didn't want to be there. This is Canada. And we're forgetting what Canada is all about. Hundreds of years ago, we didn't suffer through cold winters, with no food, no blankets, and wild animals attacking and eating us just so we could sit in boring meetings all day where I have to keep pinching and biting myself real hard just to stay awake, blood streaming down my chin and people calling me gross. Diary, always remember that. Happy Canada Day!

Thursday, June 28, 2007

My very own "Sicko" story

Dear Diary,

I made the mistake of booking my doctor's appointment during my lunch hour today. My lunch started at 12:00pm and I booked the appointment for 12:45pm so I could at least have 45 minutes to enjoy my lunch and saunter through the mall (my doctor's office is in this fantastic mall). But that only gave me five minutes for the doctor's check-up and then ten minutes to take the bus back to the office where we're having this huge meeting today with our company's head office. I can really cram a lot into a day.

Lunch consisted of a delicious but health-conscious salad at Top Taco which was made with a thin slice of tomato, a boatload of nachos and a mountain ton of American cheese. I may have even tasted a little lard in there. Then I shopped until 12:51pm (they always make you wait in the waiting room anyway). By the time I got to the doctor's office, it was 12:56pm. There was already a huge line-up to the front desk. I didn't have a second to waste; I had a big meeting to go to in four minutes, and if I was late, it wouldn't look good for Sheila, my boss, and she'd probably get fired because head office would not be impressed with her management style and how employees can just run in and out of important meetings whenever they want. That's when I panicked.

I ran up to the front of the line.

ME: Excuse me. My name is Eric and my appointment was over ten minutes ago. I shouldn't have to wait in line with everybody else.

MALE RECEPTIONIST: Your name was already called out. You'll have to wait until the doctor is finished with the appointment he has now.

ME: That's ridiculous. It's unacceptable!

RECEPTIONIST: You're late.

ME: It's lunch time. I have to eat. You're in the medical profession. Don't you know people have to eat?

RECEPTIONIST: Sir, please - have a seat. The doctor will see you shortly.

ME: I don't have "shortly"! I got nothing. I have to be back in the office for an important meeting in like two minutes or I'm going to be late and my boss is going to get fired.

RECEPTIONIST: Sir, keep your voice down. We should reschedule your appointment.

ME: I can't reschedule. I have a bump on my inner thigh that I'm worried about. The doctor has to see me. Now. I could be dead in a few minutes. I'm a walking time bomb!


ME: That's easy for you to say. You're not walking around with this huge atrocity between your legs. I need to get this thing drained!

SOME OTHER RUDE WOMAN: Someone should call security.

ME: You know what? I'll make it easy on the doc. He can just quickly check the bump. Nothing else.

I started to ease myself out of my clothes.

ME: What room is he in?

RECEPTIONIST: Sir, please.

I was now down to my tighty-whities, except they were a dull yellow, and not so tight.

RUDE WOMAN: Oh my God.

ME: I don't have time to be modest. Who knows how much time I've got left.

RECEPTIONIST: Where's your bump?

ME: Right here. It hurts.

The receptionist touched it. And I screamed bloody murder.


RECEPTIONIST: That's an in-grown hair.

ME (breathing heavily): What's the mortality rate?

RECEPTIONIST: It's an in-grown hair. You'll be fine. Have your wife pick it out with tweezers.

The rude woman behind me was now checking out my package.

RUDE WOMAN: That's not the only thing she'll have to pick out with tweezers.

Everybody exploded into laughter then, including the receptionist, and my doctor who had just walked into the room.

DOCTOR: You got that right. I usually grab my own tweezers before I ask him to cough.

Now the entire place was rocking with laughter. Blushing, I grabbed my clothes and scrambled out, like an under-appreciated one-night stand.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Waiting For Your Coffee

Dear Diary,

This morning, as I was standing in line at Tim Horton's during their insane morning rush, I saw a man through the window, standing on the sidewalk, shouting, "Tim Horton's Coffee! No line-ups!" I took a closer look and noticed that this man was scalping Tim Horton's coffee from an old toy wagon filled with full Tim's paper cups alongside a bag of sugar and a jug of cream. I turned toward the long lines and barked, "Screw this!" and marched with determination to enjoy my wait-free Timmy's outside, remarking snidely to the staff, "Oh, you guys don't know what just hit you."

After paying the man six bucks for one small cup (which was bitingly cold and tasted oddly like Postum), I told him he had a great business going. I drank the rest of my beverage, standing beside him as the man did no business. He told me to stop talking, saying that he was trying to focus on what he was doing. I told him he wasn't doing anything; how could I be bothering him. That's when he told me to get lost. Shot down, hurt, and extremely disappointed, I went on my way, handing him money for another one of his yucky coffees for the road.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

The Paris Hilton Affair: What it taught us

Dear Diary,

The Paris Hilton Affair has ended. She is out of jail and my self-imposed, 23-day strike is over. I can finally eat again, and go to the washroom. However, unbeknownst to most, my Hunger/Washroom Strike was not the only demonstration I employed to protest Paris' incarceration. Here are examples of a few more:

  • I did not allow myself to read any of my mail. I tore up all letters as the postman delivered them. Letters from loved ones, cheques from work - all were destroyed. Never saw them. And before I could even glance at the subject titles, all E-mail was also deleted.

  • Every night, before going to bed, I chewed on an entire Family Econo-Sized Macintosh Toffee bar (without swallowing it, of course) and then did not floss, brush or even use a toothpick; just left the hard, sticky goo in my mouth overnight, wrapped around each and every tooth for eight long hours, and effectively gluing my jaw shut.

  • As well, every night, I slept in my backyard while every ten minutes, paid workmen either ran a chainsaw, a jackhammer or fired a sawed-off shotgun, just inches from my head.

What this whole Paris debacle has taught me is that I am a stubborn person. The bottom line is that I took action because I felt this particular situation with Paris required a little bit more attention. A tiny bit more scrutiny. And I'd love a thank-you card.

Monday, June 25, 2007

The PRIDE Parade

Dear Diary,

Yesterday afternoon was the Pride Parade, and the small accounting firm I work for entered its own float. We all wore costumes (mine was the "gay business man on-the-go") and our dance number was set to Bronski Beat's "Why?". Our routine consisted of all of us whipping Howard with real whips. Howard is a sixty-year-old ex-drill Sargent from the army who wasn't too thrilled to be involved in the event but got stuck with the "leather thong and heavy chains" outfit and that was the role he had to play.

I kept a log of everything that happened as it went down. Please find it transcribed below.


Everyone from the office is at the garage where our float is being housed. Don, the sole openly gay male in our office, is the only one missing. Howard's wife and grandchildren are helping Howard get into costume. They seem downbeat, and a scoch apathetic which is quite off putting. Dot, the only openly gay female in our office, is unrecognizable in her Elvis costume with thick side-burns and a pompadour.


Charisse, who helped organize our float in a show of support for our two gay friends, and who choreographed our entire routine, has thrown a fit over creative differences and has quit the event. No one has noticed, except for me, as I just saw her from the corner of my eye stomping off. The rest of us are are too busy laughing at Howard and his wife, and how sad they look. No sign of Don yet.


Charisse has returned, stating that she is willing to compromise. No one has noticed her return, except for myself who just barely glanced her, and that was only because I almost tripped on her before shoving her out of my way. Don is still a no-show.


Don is here! With his parents from the country! Except that he's dressed in acid wash jeans, a Van Halen T-shirt and is wearing a strange mullet wig. He's also talking in a deeper voice, and moving in a stiff, exaggerated, masculine way as he shakes his head at us like he's embarrassed of us.


Don just lied to his mother that he's only here to support Howard. He lies again and tells his mother that Howard is gay.


Howard's wife just slapped Howard across the face.


Don's father just came out of the closet! He told his wife he couldn't help it, being surrounded by so many happy gay people. His wife said she always knew, and that she is so proud of him.


Don just shouted into his father's face, "I hate you! My father's dead to me!"


As Don is storming off, his mother has also just come out of the closet. Don's father is in tears, blubbering how proud he is of her.


Don has returned, pitching away his wig while belting out "Somewhere Over The Rainbow".


Don and his parents are group hugging each other, swaying back and forth, singing, "People... people who need people... are the luckiest people..."


And we are off. The float in front of us has five topless lesbians in pirate outfits. They're really rowdy, and talking with real pirate voices. I have to put my pad and pen down, as we all get ready to whip Howard.


In just thirty minutes, all hell has broken loose. Dot was abducted by the topless pirate lesbians and is now one of them, topless herself in a pirate get-up and sword as she and her pirate friends tie the now abducted Howard to a mast aboard their float. We all look on from our own float, horrified and helpless.


Don's mother is now also topless in a pirate costume with an eye patch and a parrot on her shoulder as she attempts to set fire to our float.


We all watch from the sidelines as our float crackles aflame.


All is forgiven between our office and the pirates as they return Howard, Dot and Don's mother back to us. In front of the police, we all "shake on it" and agree to settle our differences differently from now on.


As my wife picks me up to take me back home, and I secretly draw up plans for our float next year, I look over at Don, through the rear-view mirror, as he sadly watches both his parents "get some" while he gets zip.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Gearing up for PRIDE, Part 2

Dear Diary,

The office is really excited about our float in the Parade this weekend. Whenever Don, the only openly gay male in our office, walks by, we're all yelling, "Go Don! Go Don! Go! Go!", and he starts doing this really funky chicken dance. We're having such a blast. This place isn't so bad after all.

This morning, Dot, the only openly gay female on our office, made some non-alcoholic punch in this huge, plastic garbage bin and we started drinking some whenever we walked by. I got so high on sugar. In fact, I think I blacked out from all the sugar and excitement. The next thing I knew, me, Charisse, Derek, Maria, and I think the janitor, but I forget his name, were all in the plastic bin, in our underwear, splashing each other with punch. I have no clue how I got there, but I was laughing my head off, having such an amazing time. The garbage bin split open then, from all the people in it, and we all fell and there was punch everywhere, and we were all in our underwear and Sheila, my boss, came in with clients, and Dot was furious that her punch was ruined.

Sheila called the five of us into her office then. In my soaked underwear, I dragged in the pieces of the plastic trash bin just in case she needed it for evidence. Sheila yelled at me to leave it where I found it. She first scolded the janitor, who's like in his fifties, and said that she expected this kind of behavior from him, but regarding the rest of us, she said that she was extremely disappointed. That's when she told us that she was cancelling our office float in the Pride Parade this weekend. The janitor (I think his name's Ray) started crying then.

At lunch, everyone was so mad at us. All five of us sat together in the lunch room with our heads down in shame, me eating my sandwich, shivering in my wet underwear (I still don't know where my clothes are). After lunch, the five of us told everyone to look up from their cubicles, and we performed a sketch on what really went down (I don't know if it was all true), and how each and every one of us ended up in the punch. When it came to my turn, I just burst into tears and begged on my knees to Sheila to please let us have our float in the parade. Dot stood then and said that part of Pride was a little thing called Forgiveness. Everyone started bawling (including Sheila), and applauding, and then giving a standing ovation. I took a bow and mouthed silently to everyone, "Thank you."

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Spring Cleaning vs. "Pay-as-you-throw"

Dear Diary,

True story. This morning on a very crowded subway...

ME: Excuse me. Excuse me.

SOME RUDE GUY: It's rush hour. Why would you carry a six foot tree onto a busy subway?

ME: I've got to get it out of the apartment, and the city just adopted a "pay-as-you-throw" garbage pick-up policy. I'm going to dump it downtown on some street. Christmas is over, you know? I don't need this anymore.

RUDE GUY: It's June. What are you still doing with a Christmas tree in your apartment?

ME: Never got around to getting rid of it. Something just kept coming up. Not my fault.

RUDE GUY: Like what?

ME: I don't know. Valentine's Day, then St. Patrick's Day, then Yom Kippur. It's just been non-stop this year.

RUDE GUY: I suppose you still have your Christmas lights out, hanging on your house.

ME: Dude. Slow down. One day at a time. One day at a time.

SOME RUDE MIDDLE AGE WOMAN: You better not be turning those Christmas lights on every night. That's a waste of energy.

ME: Well, it's a waste of energy to turn them off. I'm exhausted at night.

The subway stopped at a stop then, and someone stood out of their seat and walked out. I immediately stood the tree up in the empty seat, the ceiling bending the top of the tree.

RUDE GUY: What are you doing?

ME: It's okay. Just leave it there. It's not bothering anyone.

RUDE GUY: You can't just dump your garbage on the subway before you go to work every morning.

He was saying this as I was reaching inside my backpack and pulling out a garbage bag filled with trash, and then moving to jam it beside the Christmas tree.

ME: What do you expect me to do? It's "pay-as-you-throw" now. I can't pay every time I want to throw something out. This new policy is killing me!

The subway stopped at my stop then, and as I walked out with the rest of the crowd, I emptied all my pockets out onto the floor with old wrappers, used tissue and a scrunched-up soda can.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Gearing up for PRIDE

Dear Diary,

Our office today is abuzz with our plans for Pride Week here in our city. We're a small accounting firm and we have two employees who are openly gay: Don and Dot. Don is a gay man, and Dot is a lesbian. Charisse thought it would be a great show of support for our two gay friends if our office had its own float in the Gay Pride Parade this coming Sunday. Our boss, Sheila, wholeheartedly agreed and made it mandatory for all.

During this morning's meeting, Charisse showed us our dance routine and we were all fitted for costumes. I have dibs on a business suit and travel mug for the "gay business man on-the-go" look. Howard, who's about sixty, and an ex-drill Sargent in the army, was last to pick and he got the "leather thong and heavy chains" outfit. He's been walking around the office all morning with the most shell-shocked, wide-eyed look on his face. But he was so apathetic about the whole thing in our morning meeting, and when Charisse announced that the costumes were to be found in the lunch room, he didn't scramble for his life like the rest of us.

Aboard our float, we will be dancing to Bronski Beat's "Why?" and Sheila, Dot and Charisse, who all wanted to "sex things up" a bit, are having Howard (since he chose the "leather thong and heavy chains" outfit) on all fours, gyrating his hips and throwing back his head to the beat, as the rest of us whip him with real leather whips. Don did remind all of us that our float is not by any means representative of the overall experience of being gay, but that a little "play" in the bedroom never hurt anyone. We all applauded and then gave him a standing ovation, as Howard sank deeper into his chair, all color gone from his face.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

My iPhone & I

Dear Diary,

I really want the new iPhone. I want one so bad, I have dreams at night where I'm dialing up all my friends, in the middle of a Starbucks, talking really, really loud, and laughing even louder. And everyone is staring at me, thinking, "Who is that guy?", as I'm then watching Joe Dirt, the movie, on my iPhone and I'm howling and slapping my knee, enjoying myself, and accidentally knocking over someone's latte but not noticing.

Everyone is telling themselves, "I wish I had that guy's lifestyle, so carefree, so sophisticated and worldly", as I'm now snapping pictures of Starbucks patrons walking past or sitting at tables, and I'm cutting and pasting their faces onto the bodies of cats and mice and giggling hysterically as I point at my victims, tears raining from my eyes, as people are trying to read, study or perhaps attempting to enjoy a first date.

Everyone is now putting their heads in their hands, dreading their lives, wondering, "Why am I fat, ugly, with no future? And all the iPhones in the city are sold out?", as I'm now listening to Clay Aiken's latest box-set on my iPhone, singing at the top of my lungs, my eyes closed, and my iPhone ringing from all my friends calling me back, but I can't hear because Aiken is blasting in my ears, and I'm screeching out the lyrics, and my iPhone is ringing and ringing, and I'm singing and singing, and my iPhone's ringtone is the theme from Family Ties, playing the first few lines, over and over again.

Monday, June 18, 2007

What it's for, anyway?

Dear Diary,

What’s the weekend for anyway? I just enjoyed two of the most exciting, beautiful and fulfilling days of my entire life. Now, I’m back before my computer in my small cubicle at a job in which I barely know what I’m doing. I know for a fact that I am definitely, extremely under qualified, but I aced the interview after I promised to bring a big chocolate cake for everyone in the office every Friday with candles, streamers and noisemakers. When the first Friday finally arrived last week, after having watched my entire Gimme A Break Season 3 DVD set the night before (until 7 AM in the morning), I brought in one Hostess HoHo and told everyone to divvy it up amongst themselves. When everyone started complaining and pointing at me every time I walked down our aisle of cubicles, chanting, “Liar! Liar!” (Charisse even started crying, blubbering that when she was little, her mother once served her entire birthday party of twenty kids only one sliced-up Twinkie), I declared that Chocolate Cake Fridays were off.

I then hollered until I was red in the face that the whole lot of them were ungrateful and emotionally unstable. Afterwards, I cried in the washroom over the sink, watching myself in the mirror. That’s when my boss, Sheila, came to see me. I screamed at her to leave me alone, then apologized and told her that I came from a family with an appetite disorder called "Naturally Stapled Stomach" (not true), and that we could never finish a HoHo as a family without spewing it everywhere (truth is, I ate four HoHos every day for breakfast from the age of two until my bout with rickets and scurvy at age nineteen). She told me to go home early, and I thought to myself, “Summer Hours!” And that’s when I boarded a bus with my wife and cat and we spent two touching, wondrous, thought-provoking days together. Thought-provoking as in making me think that there is way more to life than purchase orders, wiping tears from your computer keyboard and flooding the office washroom so we can all go home early.

Friday, June 15, 2007

A friend indeed...

Dear Diary,

What does it take to make a new friend? Sure, you can just walk up to someone and extend a hand and hope they'll shake it. But what's wrong with just asking for their telephone number from a mutual acquaintance, and then calling them up out of the blue. I like this better because if the conversation isn't going where I think it should, it gives me the freedom to just hang up on them without telling them who I am. If they see my number on their call display and call back, I'll just tell them that it was my little brother and that he's really lonely and desperate right now to make friends and that the caller should just have a heart, and then I'll slam the phone down again.

This gives me a nice opportunity to call this person back and apologize for slamming the phone down on him/her and then appearing like a decent, coherent person - someone they may want to have coffee with. If, once I meet this person for coffee and they don't look right that day, or I just thought they looked cooler the first time I ever saw them, I'll just introduce myself as my little brother and tell them that "Eric" (the real me) fell ill and that he won't be able to meet them, or call them up, or anything, for a long, long time. If I think the person is good looking enough to be seen with me in a coffee shop, I'll sit down, and fire off these five questions in quick succession:

1. How many times do you plan on attending "Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer"?

2. How far would you go to get "Andromeda" back on the air?

3. Will Canada's Next Top Model really become Canada's Next Top Model? Will she even be employ-able?

4. Why are all the people from "Survivor" on a pirate ship this summer? What the hell happened?

5. Should we expect the new iPhone to be able to turn on our oven at home while we are away, and do it when it wants to, even though we don't want it to, like when we are a vacation and not enjoying ourselves because we falsely believe that we may have left the oven on back at home?

If I am not satisfied with their responses, I will stand, act like I really like them, shake their hand, promise to call them back, but that I just have to go to the washroom for a minute, and then I'll run out and then down the street as fast as my feet will take me, and then change my phone number, identity and hair color. I've done it before.

C'est le Weekend

Dear Diary,

The weekend is a beautiful thing, but who decided to make Saturday and Sunday the weekend anyway? I have a bone to pick with them. I hate going back to work on Monday. I hate Mondays. So this is what I suggest: why don't we make the weekend Sunday and Monday? I wouldn't mind going to work on Saturday because I really like Saturday. I have always, always loved Saturdays, so it really wouldn't be a problem at all for me.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Make it happen!

Dear Diary,

"Many things can happen in one's life if they choose to be busy."

I got chills when I first thought up that saying. It's the advice I now whisper to myself if I get up in the morning. In the past I didn't have much to do because my chosen outlook was "Avoid doing anything that keeps you busy from now on."

I have never wanted to do anything. Ever. I hate doing anything where I have to do something. Hate bowling, parades, majorettes, tanning, playing dead. All these "leisure" activities are exhausting to me because in each and every one you have to actually "do something". I'm too tired. I'd rather lie on my couch, close my eyes and not open them until someone else needs the couch. And then I'm hopping mad. "What's wrong with you!" I'll sometimes yell. "Can't you see I don't enjoy anything else in my life! I've got nothing! No, please. Have the couch. You have everything else in life - why not take away my measly 3 minutes of rest? I have nothing, so why would I need that? Answer me that? I can't think of an answer, because I'm so depleted emotionally and physically from having nothing. I can barely stand."

I love a good afternoon nap where when you wake up, you have no clue what time it is, where you are or who you are. I also love "missing time". Like if you ask me what I was doing yesterday afternoon and I suddenly stare blankly at you and reply, "I don't remember... I don't remember anything from the past twenty-four hours!" Love that. Then I don't feel responsible for anything bad or stupid I may have done.

But Diary, people HAVE to do stuff. I know it sounds preachy, but you don't want a wasted life. Go out there and record a best selling album, make a movie and win an Academy award, put an end to our dependence on corn and ethanol. You CAN do it! Anything less, consider yourself a failure.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

"Incident" at work today

Dear Diary,

I just wanted to let you know about an "incident" that took place at work today. I'm still reeling.

ME: Excuse me. Were you just talking behind my back?

DEREK AT THE OFFICE: No. What would give you that idea?

ME: Oh, I don't know. You just used my first and last name and added f---ing a--h--le to it.

DEREK: I'm sitting alone here in the cafeteria and no one's at work yet. Who would I be talking to?

ME: Maybe you're rehearsing. Like a dress rehearsal.

DEREK: I don't even know who you are. I've never even seen you here before.

ME: I'm Eric. It's my first day.

DEREK: You nervous or something?

Diary, now I'm all worried that everyone's going to think that I'm "the nervous new guy". This Derek seems like he has a such big mouth, spreading rumors about people and stuff, especially since he was talking behind my back the minute I walked into the joint. I haven't even made any friends yet. The girl next to me wouldn't even lend me any scotch-tape when I was building my cardboard retractable roof over my cubicle. I can't even access Solitaire on my computer. This job sucks! I wish Derek would quit.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Daydream much?

Dear Diary,

I am working this morning, and have just been hit with an epiphany. It's weird, but it's kind of shattering me a little, like to the core. I have never in my life ever daydreamed. What is it like? Sure, I dream at night, like any other normal person. You're psycho if you don't. But to daydream... I mean to dream right in the middle of the day... what would that be like... I wonder... maybe I'd be dancing by myself in a gorgeous garden, with my face right smack in a bouquet of sweet smelling daisies and dandelions, and my long T-shirt, swirling in the breeze like a summer dress, and light rain kissing my cheeks, like happy tears, thinking about my next birthday, and everyone screaming, "Make a wish! Make a wish!" and me wishing for my next birthday to be the very next day, where I could make another wish that the next day would be my birthday. To daydream... what would that be like... I wonder... Happy Birthday to me (in eight months)...

Monday, June 11, 2007

Something Fishy...

Dear Diary,

I have just been informed that this personal blog has had over 650,000 hits in the last hour, which is starting to make me feel like someone other than myself is reading my diary. Whoever you are, I am starting an investigation (Encyclopedia Brown-style) and I WILL FIND OUT. Please, these are personal, intimate thoughts with lots of JUICY, MARINATED OVERNIGHT GOSSIP. Stop reading. This is none of your business (the business of TANTALIZING, NEVER BEFORE SEEN, "MOST DRAMATIC ROSE CEREMONY" GOSSIP).


Me and my Diary, BFs forever and ever...

Dear Diary,

I'm glad I have you as a friend. A paper friend, if you will. I will tell you my deepest secrets, my most personal wishes and the latest on Paris and the slammer. I love you, my Diary.