Tag Archives: bagels

Refresh, dammit

Weird week. Weird weird week. Seven days of “vacation” wherein my biggest accomplishment was stuffing fake snow under the coffee table. A one-day work “week,” and even that’s too long, considering I’m now done with what I had to do and, y’know, writing this blog.

(And what did I have to do? Why, I wrote seven different blurbs all about romantic restaurants. Hey! Fuck you, February issue! Fuck you, magazine lag time! Fuck you, [radio edit] and your stupid story about chocolate mousse cake and princess-cut diamonds! If you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom, dusting the Cheetos crumbs out of my bra.)

Feeling more banana than hammer these days—a bit soft, a bit brown around the stem. Battered and haggard from the constant tug and sting of emotional stuff, which at least does have some moments of not sucking entirely, but suck is definitely the mood of the season. It’s like having a nightmare about drowning, waking up relieved and then actually forgetting to wear pants to work.

So I’m trying not to dwell on my emotional pantslessness and thinking instead about…what? Bagels. Bourbon. My Shakespearean insult magnet poetry and how I’d now like to call my band “Prodigal Codpiece.”

Of course, I have to be in the office until they let me leave. People say that’s a good distraction, but it’s really not, because I just sit and bounce between IE windows compulsively refreshing my email and Facebook, halfheartedly checking the Bradenton Herald website, then bouncing back. Refresh. Refresh refresh refresh.

“Charges dropped in Holmes Beach panties theft case.” Well, at least it was the charges and not the panties. (*rimshot*)

(Refresh refresh refresh.)

Trying to figure out where to meet Little J for dinner tonight. How does Bahi Hut sound? Pineapple and maraschino cherries count as food.

(Refresh refresh refresh refresh refresh.)

I initially typed “cheeries” and couldn’t figure out why it was wrong. Stupid fucking cherries all happy and shit. I reject you. I take you out of my mai tai and fling you across the room, so much do I detest your cheerfulness. You are not the fruit I’m looking for.

Banana and pineapple, sitting in a tree, D-R-I-N-K-I-N-G.

(Refresh. Refresh refresh.)

Sigh. Can we go home yet?


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