Simon *Hearts* Singer

I am sure you've seen or heard about that nice Scottish Susan Boyle woman with the simple life and the stunning voice. While her lovely voice and sweet story makes me all teary eyed, this is the bit I love:



He fucking looks like he's imagining how her heart would taste coated in breadcrumbs and sauteed in butter.

Friday, A Vignette

The Yam* was chatty today, feeling helpful. He had to give advice, express appreciation, ask questions so that he could ignore the answers. The Yam does not respect personal space; he stands in my bubble. I think about stabbing him in his eyebrow, and wonder how his wife can stand to be around him. I expect she drinks, and that she has a lover. Maybe several.

The Chatterer* talked on the phone about her child who will soon be attending a party. There is much concern over what the girl will wear, over selecting the right color of jaunty cowboy hat. The girl is under two. The Chatterer does not know that her daughter will one day come to hate her. Eventually, the girl will come home with a shaved head, a bondage collar, and a girlfriend in flannel. Either that, or she will grow into the worst kind of spoiled princess. A young woman capable only of narcissism and avarice. No matter how this turns out, there will be screaming and recriminations.

The Chatterer is contemplating divorce, although she might not even know this yet. She does not like her husband, and likely never did. One day, in a year or 18 months, she will finally find a "reason" to leave him. I wonder if he knows.

I love my job.

*The V.P.
*His assistant

Blue Monday

Boring night here in the NoCo. After a rather shit day at work, I find myself decompressing on the couch and trying to convince myself that I don't really want to eat the remaining Thin Mints in the house...or at least not all of them.

It's been a boring and rather quiet evening. The Boy was good enough to fix dinner for us while I managed to get in and out of the grocery store without even once considering punching someone in the face, which any more is the best I hope when interacting with the general public. Since then I've planted myself on the couch, surfing the internet for utter bullshit and a few recipes.

Clearly, I need a hobby.

Annnnddd . . . We're Back!

I haven’t written. Again.

I have parted ways with Corporate Happy Fun Job, and I find that the decompression caused my brain to get all . . . fluffy . . . Not to mention, the sudden dearth of day-to-day contact with douchebags and morons has left me at a loss for things to write about. It seems that without someone actually in my presence being a dickwad, I can’t work up the necessary amount of irritation to write about anything.

Which means that my writing is like a pearl--an un-grammatical, profane pearl. Letters are the nacre I use to lessen the irritating grit that is Other People’s Bullshit. Or something. Doesn’t that sound nice? I think it sounds nice.

The intervening weeks have also seen me take a much needed trip to visit The Esteemed Liquor Fairy in her coastal lair; as well as winter entering its final death throes (even if it is supposed to snow tomorrow, which really? Fuck a bunch of that). April might be the cruelest month, but March turned into a most eventful one.

Now that I’m getting settled, more or less, in the new job and the new season I find that I’m somewhat more inspired to write and participate. Also, although the new job—CHFJ.2, if you will—is in no way as idiotic as the last, working for a living still pretty much sucks.* My new bosses are not either of them swaggering dildos, although the one does have that unfortunate spray tan addiction that makes one look all sweet potato-y. I see in my future many exciting days of self-control followed by evenings of profane venting.

*Currently accepting applications for a patron. Contact me through this blog.