The Smiths - Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
Sleater-Kinney - Let’s Call It Love
Johnny Cash w/ June Carter - Give My Love to Rose
White Plains - My Baby Loves Lovin’
Red Hot Chili Peppers - Rollercoaster of Love
The Decemberists - From My Own True Love (Lost at Sea)
The Cure - Hello I Love You
The Sundays - Love
The Doors - Love Her Madly
Liz Phair - count on My Love
Iron & Wine - Love and Some Verses
Fiona Apple - Not About Love
Billie Holiday - I Loves You, Porgy
Ween - Learnin’ to Love
Rilo Kiley - Give a Little Love

I suppose I should stop fucking around doing useless shit like this and go sort some more crap. But I’m tired. And it’s been a long day. Mr. Meeting calls from downstairs as soon as I walk in the fucking door this morning, and wants me to come unload boxes out of his car. Then, he proceeds to want to have a conference about shit to do, etc., while we’re standing out on the sidewalk. I asked if we could, oh, I don’t know, wait five minutes and have the conversation IN THE OFFICE, but apparently no. In addition, it appears that I’m getting ready to get more shit dumped on me.

The management appears to continually be shoving their collective heads ever farther up their ass. The cases we have going on right now have been on the docket for months. The last person quit four months ago. If you guys KNEW that the newer girl couldn’t handle some of the shit, why not pass it along FOUR MONTHS AGO and not fucking a month before trial? But I guess logic is not a requirement when you’re in the legal field.

Grrr.

I’m also having something of a dilemma about clothing. Some of my clothes don’t exactly fit at the moment. However, should I actually decide to get off my ass, they probably would. I’m torn. Not so much about the shirts - a lot of that shit I didn’t really like - but the jeans. They’re REALLY GOOD JEANS. The current selection of plus-size jeans falls under the heading of “things that piss me off and make me want to choke a bitch.” Unlike pretty much everyone else, I am not convinced of the relative merits of LB Right Fit Jeans as they relate to the size and shape of my butt. The pockets are too low. They make my ass look all flat and droopy. I’m not entirely thrilled with the ones I ordered from Old Navy, either. I kind of want to order the lower-rise ones - but the low-rise pants I tried on there (back in the day when they actually had the plus-size clothing IN THE STORE) never quite fit right. But they have CHANGED the jeans (motherfucking asstards), so will the low-rise fit better? And how many of their inconsistent sizes will I have to order before I either figure out which one fits or figure out that they all suck? According to some recent reports, the claim of free returns = complete bullshit, and I’ve read that taking them back to the store is somewhat of a hassle as well. Most likely, the rejects would end up lurking in the closet until I went on another purge.

Anyway. The donate vs. hang in closet in attempt to guilt self into exercise dilemma. I am not a fan of the guilt trip, whether inflicted by others or self-inflicted, and if it were anything BUT fucking (and everything but the jeans, other than maybe one suit, is going out the door - the suit issue is the same as the jeans. Finding ones that fit my linebacker shoulders, long arms, and lack of rack is a daunting task. When I find a jacket that actually doesn’t look dumb, I hoard. I think that’s been the reason I’ve hung on to some of my college speech-dork suits. So very dated, they are, but the jackets fit, goddammit. I’m at least going to get rid of those.)

I know, I know. Less typing, more packing.

Happy Valentine’s Day to those who give a shit. For the rest, remember that tomorrow is a day filled with 50% off chocolate. (Yes, I realize that I just spent two paragraphs discussing how my favorite jeans don’t quite cover my fat ass. I never claimed to be non-contradictory. Nor can I forsee any future in which I do not consume chocolate. Chocolate is good for you. Tater tots, perhaps not so much.)

Packing. Right.

So what’s the stress about, you ask?  Moving.  Lando and I have decided to shack up, a decision necessitated by his roommate, Machismo, thinking that moving in with his baby momma as roommates only is a good idea. 

Right.

Anyway, I’m not so stressed out at the idea of living with Lando as I am about the actual moving process.  Packing.  Sorting.  Figuring out whether the bookcase I’ve had since junior high will survive another move.  Finding out that because Machismo decided to transfer their electric service early, we have to pay another deposit for the electricity.   I hate the electric company. 

Also, there’s worry about how the kitties will all get along.  Since Machismo’s kitten exited the premises and various cleaning and rearranging has been happening, Lando’s cat has been in a bit of a funk.  He expresses this funk by leaving “surprises” on the welcome mat and in the bathroom and also by laying on the hearth looking depressed.  I TOLD him that soon he would have three new friends.  He responded by pooping in front of the closet door. 

I’m sure at least one of mine – probably Emily – will behave in a similar fashion.  That’s usually her response to any sort of change.  Well, that, and stress eating.  Fortunately this does not last long. 

Eventually they will all get along, or at least learn to tolerate each other, but there may be a few nights of “YOU CAN ALL GO LIVE AT THE FUCKING POUND!” before that happens. 

In the meantime, while all this is going on, work is sucking a fat one.  We’re understaffed and overdocketed.  I’m going to have to take less time off than I wanted to because the other legal assistant has a trial the following week.  If I’m gone the whole week before, that will be bad.  It’s her first actual trial, so she’s freaking a bit, and I’m the only one who can actually help her with anything. 

*headdesk*

In addition, the lawyers seem to be coming up with new and interesting ways to be high-maintenance.  For example.  Mr. Meeting has a deposition tomorrow in Dallas.  He wanted about 1500 pages of documents copied/printed before he left.  I ask him yesterday afternoon what time he planned to leave today, because if it was at LUNCHTIME TODAY, I would need to get the shit to the copy service immediately rather than in the morning.  He assures me that no, no.  He’s not leaving till 3:30 or 4. 

First thing this morning, that changes to 2:30 or 3.  Fine.  No problem.  I sent the documents out when I got here.  Told them to be back no later than 1.  While I’m at lunch (at about noon), Mr. Meeting sends me an email that he wants to leave “as soon as possible.”

Goddammit, if you wanted to do that, WHY COULDN’T YOU HAVE FUCKING TOLD ME YESTERDAY AND THEN YOUR SHIT WOULD BE HERE ASSHOLE?

The copy service brought the stuff to me at 1, as promised.  Then, Mr. Meeting makes me go meet him outside to help him load the car.  I was, like everyone else in the office, sick last week.  Nothing aids your recovery like standing outside for half an hour in the cold waiting for his ass to figure out how to get out of the parking garage….

Grr. 

I need to go home and start cleaning and packing.  It’s so hard to muster up the energy to do those things when you spend all day dealing with stupid.   

I can’t believe that someone actually believes this is a good idea. Several someones, in fact, since the bill has co-authors. Wonder if they actually wrote this from scratch, or if they just borrowed some old Jim Crow laws and changed “black” or “Negro” to “obese?”

My question is, what about the employees of these establishments? If the state really has an almost 30% obesity rate, you have to figure that a percentage of the employees of any given restaurant are going to be fat. Does that mean they can’t eat at work? That they have to bring a sandwich and eat in their cars? Or will it mean they can’t work at a restaurant at all?

So many times in the past, we as a nation have proved that PROHIBITION DOESN’T WORK. When they made alcohol illegal, people just smuggled it in and drank it anyway. People still use marijuana and heroin and cocaine and meth. They still take prescription drugs for fun. Making it illegal for fat people to eat in public is not going to magically make them thin, nor is it any way to ensure that they “eat less, and move more.”

Obesity is not so simple. People come in all shapes and sizes and colors. Short, tall, black, white, fat, skinny. Most people fall somewhere in the middle.

Most importantly, if the lawmakers of Mississippi are really concerned about the health and well-being of their state, they should promote programs which teach people about nutrition and exercise. They should make sure that people of all income levels have access to these programs. Make free gyms and offer incentives to businesses who make an effort to use fresh, healthy ingredients. Offer health screening to everyone, and health care for any problems that are revealed. In other words, make an actual effort to do things that will work toward actually improving the HEALTH of your communities, not promote a culture of shame and starvation.

I challenge Senator Mayhall to find me even ONE fat person in his state that hasn’t tried some form of starvation diet at least once….and who found out that once they actually ate food, they regained anything they lost. I also challenge him to find more than a handful of people who have lost weight and kept it off for more than 5 years.

I somehow doubt that he’ll find them.

I know, I don’t live in Mississippi, so this doesn’t necessarily affect me directly. But I live in Oklahoma, which has a percentage of obesity that is nearly as high. If the law passes there, who is to say we won’t be next?

I am not sure who came up with that one, but I do not understand how, on any planet, those are an acceptable gift for any occasion.  I especially do not understand how they could be construed as romantic.  “Here, sweety, I want you to look like you have big giant cankles! With fur!” 

It probably would have – but this was a criminal case, in federal court.  Not your garden variety DUI, not a repeat offender, but a 28 year old woman. 

We found her guilty, and that was fucking tough to do, or at least it was for me.  I think it was the right decision, but it was emotionally exhausting.  It was especially wrenching when, as the verdict was read, the defendant put her head down in her hands.  I couldn’t tell if she was crying.  It was hard to look at her.  Because despite the fact that she was guilty, my heart still ached for her.  She and her husband were young and broke.  She had a gambling addiction.  She was a bank teller, he worked at a bookstore. 

I don’t really know where the line was.  I don’t know what made her do what she did.  She probably had help, somewhere, but ultimately, the responsibility was hers.  Her supervisor at the bank was probably around my age, and seemed like someone I could be friends with.  The DEFENDANT seemed like someone I could be friends with.  The prosecutor seemed to badger the witnesses unnecessarily (none of them were belligerent or hostile in any way, including the defendant herself).  The investigators on the case came across as either marginally competent or just plain assholes.  But when it came time to reach a decision, the evidence was unmistakable….but the jury had to review all of the paperwork to see that, because the case presented in court was not nearly conclusive.

Being in the jury box was also frustrating, in a way, because I didn’t get to see everything I wanted to see (not all of the notes and things that witnesses consulted were actually admitted into evidence) and I couldn’t ask clarifying questions.  (Plus, the paralegal running the computer was totally not as good at it as I am, but she did have kind of an interesting format with her exhibit list, and I really want to call her and get her to email that shit to me.  I felt that these thoughts were somewhat inappropriate given the circumstances, but I guess I can’t totally shut off my usual courtroom thought processes just because I’m in a different role.) 

Deliberations were pretty emotional.  There were only two of us (one of them being me) who didn’t vote “guilty” right off the bat.  The questions left after hearing witness testimony and seeing the exhibits which were really shown to us at hearing certainly created reasonable doubt, at least in my mind. 

Everyone on the jury seemed reasonably intelligent….and we were all very vocal about our opinions.  From what we saw at hearing, the investigation railroaded the defendant to a degree….and in the jury room, I was feeling a little railroaded.  In criminal cases, the verdict has to be unanimous (civil cases are usually a majority).  If you can’t all agree, a mistrial is declared and they have to do it all over again.  When you are one of the two dissenting votes, there is definitely some peer pressure to just see things their way and just vote guilty and let’s all go home, okay?

For the most part, even though everyone was loud and opinionated, the jurors were respectful of one another.   One of them, though, really made me want to cry and strangle her at the same time.  As the two of us who dissented were going through our list of questions that we felt needed to be answered before we just agreed to deprive someone of her liberty, and as some of the jurors were answering our points and showing documents around, one woman (who was probably in her late 30s-early 40s) starts saying “ding! Ding! Ding!” after the points raised by fellow jurors.  And she was being downright…giddy…about it.  It was at that point that I said “I’m not saying she can’t be guilty, but I’m saying that if we are planning to put this woman in jail, we shouldn’t be gleeful about it.” 

Of course, she claimed she wasn’t being that way, but she fucking well was.  Plus, deliberations are not about getting to be “right”…they are about reviewing the evidence and reaching a collective decision.  I felt like she wanted to “win” rather than actually listen to any counterargument. 

The other person that got to me was a guy about my dad’s age….who forcibly reminded me of my dad at his worst.  He was pretty congenial the rest of the time, but he was definitely convinced of her guilt and being almost abusive in his proclamation of this fact. 

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when people are judgmental.  I shouldn’t be surprised by meanness, by hate, by minds that seem welded shut to any viewpoint but their own.  It just seems so strange to me when people can’t put themselves in someone else’s shoes, or at least try to.  Maybe I just tend to root for (and identify with) the underdog.  I grant you, if the person accused of embezzlement was some sort of high-paid executive, I probably would have been less initially sympathetic.  Then again, I could see how someone in that position might get desperate.  Or at least, how they could perceive that they are desperate.  Addictions and bills and financial difficulties can happen at any income level, any race, any gender.  There is always the desire to maintain the front that everything is fine, everything is great, no problems here, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.  

There was discussion at the trial about the defendant being ashamed of her financial situation, ashamed of her gambling habit, ashamed of how her termination and subsequent prosecution had affected her family, particularly her mother (who worked at the same bank from which the defendant embezzled funds.)  The one time she broke down on the witness stand, it was when she talked about the day she got fired and how, even though her mom was just yards away, she couldn’t walk by her office on the way out and tell her in person what happened. 

That was tough to listen to.  Despite the rest of her story being less than true, I think that part was honest.  That was raw. 

The experience was certainly interesting, and it was not at all what I had expected.  In a way, it makes me glad that all I see are fights over money…but also makes me even less inclined to think that what I do is all that important.  The outcomes of our cases may affect someone’s quality of life, but they don’t fundamentally alter its course. 

I had a really hard time sleeping last night.  Even though I’m sure that the decision was correct, I kept running over everything in my head.  The judge came in and talked to us after the verdict, and she said that she almost expected a mistrial.  Which, of course, made me feel like I should have held out longer, should have questioned more….even though the jury looked at all the evidence and discussed it in detail.  I’m always plagued with the “what ifs”. 

I can only hope they recede in time. 

Evidently, the Feds are pretty serious about their jury summonses.  State court (which I managed to only get one of in the 15+ years since I registered to vote), you can call and whine, and they will let you out of it.  Federal court, you better be bleeding from the eyeballs and have a doctor’s note that you’re contagious, plus some sort of threat to someone else’s life, before they will consider allowing you to shirk your civic duty.   Before the first jury was selected, the judge basically invited excuses.  About 10 people got up (I was not one - I read the directions that pretty much said “you’re fucked, get over it”), and she told them all, other than one, to sit down and shut up. 

Furthermore, the Feds don’t just have one-week jury terms.  Oh, no.  It’s like 3 or 4 weeks, and even if you serve on ONE jury, you could still end up stuck on ANOTHER one.

Being a paralegal was no excuse.  There were three lawyers in the jury pool and they didn’t let any of them leave either. 

The day did not start well.  I couldn’t sleep for shit, and clearly had an unconscious battle with the snooze, which the snooze won handily.  (And whatever asstard decided we need to report at 7:30 for jury duty can blow me.)  I managed to throw myself together, find a fucking parking space, and walk the three blocks from said parking space to the courthouse (noting several more proximate parking lots along the way.) 

Despite my prompt arrival, it was wait in line time.  Then it was sit and watch a stupid 1980’s video on jury service.  (Seriously, I forgot that horrible color – and those horrible shoulder pads – were that prevalent.  Almost all the women in the film were wearing that “burn your retinas” royal blue, and had shoulders better than any NFL player.)  Then it was go through questions by the judge. 

By this time, it’s 10.  I haven’t had my coffee, I haven’t had a smoke, and I’m decidedly tired and cranky.  We are within meters of the jury assembly room with its tantalizing aroma of caffeine, and then no.  We are herded (and I do mean herded – seriously, by trip number three to the courtroom, I was suggesting a group “MOO” to the other panelists) into a conference room.  Where the Jury Nazi informs us that if we’re not called for the next panel, we can go smoke.

Guess who was on the next panel? 

So after another hour, I finally obtain some coffee.  Shitty and painful coffee, but coffee, nonetheless.  Still no smoke. 

The next trip to the courtroom is where I get tagged for actual service.  Maybe the defendant will take a plea bargain.  We do have a number to call tomorrow after 5, just to check. 

Super. 

I go back to get my car.  The lot where it was parked is one of those “Step 2: put your junk in that box” kind of lots without an attendant.  I actually ALMOST forgot to pay (but I FUCKING WELL DID), but I come back to a yellow envelope telling me I didn’t.  I look at the number on the parking space more closely (and with benefit of caffeine and bright sunlight, neither of which I had at 7:15 this morning) and I put my junk in the wrong box. 

 That will involve phone calls.

I go back to the office to a bunch of bitching and dealing with the Big Boss, he of the ADD and inexplicable moods. 

At least the attorneys trying the case will be sucking up to the jurors instead of bitching at them. 
 

So fuck Thanksgiving and Christmas, because they’re holidays, and honestly, there is no stories of hilarity and mayhem which would make for any sort of interesting reading.  I mean, other than my stepfather’s annual bitch about my lotion giving him a headache…when (a) it’s the same lotion I had approved last year, because he always throws a goddamn fit and then sulks and makes my mom upset and (b) I seriously was in the house with the motherfucker for maybe 5 minutes and I was in a totally different room at the opposite end of the house so I don’t even know how he smelled it.  It was Bath & Body Sweet Pea, for fuck’s sake, not Floweredy Grandma Mothball Ass. 

That, and at Thanksgiving, I had this totally random airport conversation with a guy about politics and fat acceptance.  And I think he was hitting on me.  Which is kind of screwy, because I looked like an utter pile of shit.  I was sick.  I had on my glasses.  I had no makeup on AT ALL, was wearing an ugly too big t-shirt that I usually only wear for sleeping, and had on my striped rain shoes.  Plus, when he struck up the conversation, I had my nose implanted in a book and my face implanted in a chili dog.  Desperation is not attractive, dude. Then, on the plane, sat next to an older guy who said he was a psychiatrist, and he probably was – you could tell he’d been listening to people talk all day because I don’t think he shut up between Oklahoma City and Denver.  And then he acted all disappointed that Denver was not my final destination.

Christmas, I dragged Lando along, and he seemed to get along fine with the family.  Presents were bought (his shortly AFTER Christmas, because I kept getting answers of what he wanted like “world peace” and “a new car.”)

The above paragraphs are why I am seriously questioning my writing ability lately.  I feel like I have worked so long for attorneys – where it’s all about presenting factual information – that I’m not sure how to rant about things anymore.  Or how to provide an actual description of something or talk about what is swirling in my head. 

I guess the problem is that I am feeling a lack of creativity.  I feel like all the thoughts I’m having are something someone has already written about, and in a more cohesive and articulate fashion, and that anything I have to contribute is nonessential, noncreative, and stupid. 

I think I really just need a goddamn vacation.  A vacation that does not involve one or both of the parents.  I was going to try to sneak one in at the end of the month, but then I got a jury summons for Christmas. 

Plus, it’s FEDERAL jury duty.  You can’t bring phones with cameras.  That leaves out pretty much every phone manufactured today (my friend CL, who works for one of the judges, said to just tell the guards it doesn’t have one and they won’t confiscate it).  They say you can bring a laptop, but can’t bring it in the courtroom (I’m sure this doesn’t apply to lawyers trying cases, which is bullshit).  Blah blah.  Must go to bookstore this weekend.  Must also locate Nintendo DS, which is hiding somewhere under the bed. 

I’m hoping that once they find out I know half the lawyers in town and have worked for the other half, they will perhaps not make me stay there very long.

Finally, Edmund Hillary just died today?

Even though I’ve read/seen some things on the history of Mt. Everest, I guess I had it in my head that the first person who got credit for summiting was already long dead. 

Why I feel the need to mention this, I don’t know, other than it weirds me out to see that someone died who I thought was dead already. 

My sense of time lately is just fried. 

The rules:

Do a Google image search on the answer to each item, and pick a photo from the first page of results. Post the photo.  Make everyone think you actually wrote something.  Heh.

1.  Age at next birthday:

2.  Place you’d like to travel:

3.  Favorite place:

4.  Favorite objects:

5.  Favorite food:

6.  Favorite animal:

7.  Favorite color:

8.  Town of birth:

9.  Town where you live now:

10.  Name of past pet:

11.  First name of past love:

12.  Best friend’s nickname:

13.  Your screen name:

14.   Your first name:

15.  Your middle name:

16.  Your last name:

17.  Bad habit:

18.  First job:

19.  Grandma’s name:

20.  College major:

The end.

Of course, being that I only use three products (plus the occasional dot of concealer), I’m kinda picky about them.

I prefer pencil eyeliner because it’s a lot easier to correct first-thing-in-the-morning-haven’t-had-my-fucking-coffee-I-can-barely-see mistakes. You get it a little crooked, no biggie, just smudge with a Q-tip for the “smoky” look. Liquid liner goes on darker, the actual line is very defined, and you have to wait for the shit to dry or risk looking like Rocky the Raccoon. You’d think that the wet factor would actually make it EASIER to fix mistakes, but you would be wrong. (Of course, it could just be that I’m a dumbass.)

There are about 3 brands of pencil liner I like. One is Mary Kay, one is Rimmel London, and one is Revlon. These all go on smoothly and smudge when needed without smudging right off the face.

Mascara must be waterproof, and it must be BROWN. Not black, not black/brown, BROWN. That leaves about one brand – Maybelline Great Lash. (Note to those who don’t believe in drugstore brands – the expensive shit doesn’t come in brown either. I’ve looked. Black. EXTRA MEGA BLACK. Black/brown.) I’ve tried the other colors, and they make me look like an aging whore. My fellow redheads will feel my pain on this one. I don’t know why it is that other of the fair-skinned can wear black mascara and look just fucking fine – my two blonde best friends wear exclusively black mascara, and even black/brown makes them look washed out.

That leaves the lipstick. I’m a big fan of the CoverGirl Outlast and the Revlon Colorstay. Know why? Those are the only two stay-on-all-day-kind that come in any shade that isn’t pink. Of course, lipsticks tend to look pink on me, even when they’re not. It’s so strange – my mom has the opposite problem. Pink looks brown on her. We could wear the same color lipstick, and you would swear it was two different colors.

But NOW they’re saying that lipstick has lead in it.

And that gets to the actual point of this story. I saw an article that showed the lead levels in lipstick, and the author talked about different brands which were more natural. She said, though, that some of the lipsticks, despite being made of mostly identifiable plant-based ingredients, could not be considered vegan if the dye in them was made from bugs.

I knew vegans didn’t eat meat or eggs or fish or drink milk or wear leather or support the destruction of animals in any way. I get that. But BUGS?? BUGS COUNT?

Ok, maybe the thought of crushed bugs on your lips is not so appealing. So I’ll just not think about that part. But the thought of said crushed bugs violating some ethical dietary choice never would have occurred to me.

I mean, I’ve had a few moments of fun at the expense of self-righteous vegetarians, namely, an ex. He wasn’t a strict vegetarian/vegan – he ate fish, milk, and eggs – but dear god I hated the restaurant ordering. “I can’t have ANY meat. Is THIS made with meat? Is this? Bitch bitch can’t eat anything on the menu can’t believe I’m paying $20 for a piece of bread yada yada yada.” Sorry, but that shit gets on my nerves. Call ahead. Know what restaurants are friendly to your dietary choices. Don’t fucking sit there and pout through dinner, thus spoiling mine.

So I kind of neglected to tell him that certain sauces on some seafood dishes were made with beef or chicken stock, and then listened to him go on and on about how good the dishes were.

(Why he didn’t ask at that restaurant, I don’t know, except that it was mostly “American” seafood on the menu, so I guess he thought it was safe, unlike, say, Tex-Mex or Asian food. )

Anyway, back to the topic, which was “how the fuck do bugs count as not being vegan?”

And, if that’s the case, why have I been acquainted with vegans who would practically try out for “Stomp” every time a bug reared its head in their dwelling place?

While we’re on the subject, let’s talk about why I don’t see the point of being a vegan. (I know I’m probably losing some liberal hippie cred over this one, but oh fucking well.) I can understand not wanting to promote cruel and unusual treatment of animals. I can understand wanting to recycle, buy a fuel-efficient car, use sustainable energy sources and biodegradable products. I’m all for farmer’s market veggies, not eating so many chemicals, etc. But for fuck’s sake. We’re at the top of the food chain. It’s ALL a part of nature. Everything feeds on everything else. We can try to make sure the food animals don’t suffer unnecessarily, but in the meantime, human beings did not evolve to eat only plants. Our teeth are all wrong, for one thing.

However, if you decide that killing animals is wrong, ok, fine. But why no eggs and milk? Those don’t kill animals. But I’m quite sure that the chemicals used to make your non-leather shoes and purses and belts destroy some ecosystems. Unless you’re using 100% cotton canvas everything, you’re still killing things. Which is worse? Ruining the lakes and rivers and oceans with chemical runoff, or eating a nice juicy bacon-wrapped filet mignon?

At least filet mignon doesn’t have lead in it. 

 My New Favorite Song:  “Come Together” (Joe Cocker, on the Across the Universe Soundtrack.  Go see the movie - that was my favorite scene, I think.)

Today’s Time Waster: How many levels of wrong can there be in one three-minute video?

What I’m Craving:  Some more of the cookie bars that one of the girls at work made.  They’re like crack in a pan.  I think they’re called Neiman Marcus Bars. 

*Stephen King has also written some similar stories.  Probably some other authors as well, but the rest of my junk food reading is Harry Potter, legal thrillers, and occasionally fondly remembered childhood classics, so I cannot name any further names. 

Anyway, my point is, hearing about some mysterious meteorite crashing into a remote village that the VILLAGERS didn’t think was a meteorite and then everyone getting some violent, life-threatening illness which will cause them all to die and leave radioactive corpses that the invaders from another planet will then come and feast upon while planting their demonic seeds to ensure that the subsequent generation will devour the world (okay, maybe I made that last part up) – kind of creeps me out. 

Of course, if aliens from another planet took over, I wouldn’t have to read any more e-mails from Ms. Whiny about the 97 things she needs me to do…things that, in the time it took her to type the fucking e-mail and will take her to bitch at me for not reading her mind about EXACTLY WHAT SHE NEEDS…she could have done herself. 

I should hang up a sign that says “WELCOME VISITORS”, kinda like Chef did in South Park.  But wait. That led to an anal probe.   Maybe I’ll just get some earplugs to tune out Ms. Whiny…

…until a meteorite crashes into the building and the entire city becomes infested with a devouring plague and aliens eat our corpses.