s.o.c.

Nope, still not a cat person. Anyone want a little black kitty cat with big green eyes and big bat ears and constant distressed "why aren't you playing with me motherfucker?" meows that will drive a mostly sane person to almost total insanity in a matter of days? I've been living with this thing for three weeks. I do like him but he gotsta go.

Last night at work I broke two glasses in separate incidents in my first thirty minutes on the floor. Then halfway through I quite royally fucked up the check for a large party. And then after work I couldn't bear going home so I hung out with a coworker downstairs and set a paper towel on fire, on purpose, but I'd accidentally produced a flint-like device and couldn't blow the danged thing out, which sent the backwaiters and manager running downstairs to find the source of the smoke-smell, and I quickly attempted to explain myself and when I got to the top of the stairs the first and only thing I saw was Rachel Dratch sitting at a table and looking at me with disdain, and then I went home and smoked eight thousand cigarettes (okay, just two, but I felt like smoking eight thousand.) Work reminds me of grade school. No matter how superior a job I do, I'm constantly getting myself into trouble in some new ridiculous way. It's strangely comforting, actually. Like I haven't lost myself, or something. Woooah didn't intend to go there.

Anyway, I'm supposed to go to Mexico a week from today, but I think I want to go to Wisconsin instead. If passing up the chance to lie on the beach and learn to scuba dive in Mexico for eight days for the chance to mow my parents' lawn deep in the heart of Dairyland isn't a sign of craziness, I don't know what is.

Also, I have never seen the trailer for Snakes on a Plane, nor do I know anything about it whatsoever, really.

Bellevue here I come.