I’m at the library, and the man next to me at the computer is writing some sort of short story in which a 7 year old is watching people of un-named genders have sex in an abandoned building. It’s terrible prose, predictably. And he’s watching clips from Steven King movies on youtube while he works.

I think I may mace him on principle. I’ll get back to you.

I do read over people’s shoulders, in case you were wondering. I hate it when people do that to me though. With the fire of one thousand suns, actually.

Kant-scmant.

Here’s some news: I have a head cold. Or an allergy. At any rate, I took just slightly too much Nyquil last night and sent any number of borderline insane text messages to people before falling asleep in a position it took me a good two minutes to extract myself from this morning. Also, I dreamed about trying to wrestle Sherry Shepherd. That’s why you shouldn’t drink from the bottle.

I feel like this event is marginally more shameful to confess than the standard drunk text. Also, I think my plans for the weekend may be ruined on account of my sniffly horribleness. It just gets lamer and lamer around here.

And speaking of plans: I still don’t have any. The nice people in charge of hiring for Our Mainline Protestant Denomination have fallen off the face of the earth. I’ve gotten emails saying that interviews will be scheduled soon and that list the names (how odd) of eventual interviewees, but I still haven’t received a schedule. I’ve emailed and called a couple of times. It’s nerve-wracking. I have googled the other people on the list. Not surprisingly, they skew old. Or they seem to. People who don’t have distinctive names, like Church Rat for instance, are hard to google accurately. It must be sad to be them.

In college, my coworkers and I discovered, through google, that one of us shared a name with a tremendously popular actor in pornographic film. Not so popular we would’ve heard of her without google, though. It was a Christian college, you know.

For Secretary’s Day–a holiday I consider to have more to do with recognizing pink collar workers than, say, getting balloon bouquets–I got a new mouse from the pastor. My old mouse was terrible. I spent a lot of time shaking it violently and trying not to swear. And once I shouted I hate mouse balls.

As if someone loves them.

Except maybe this guy sitting next to me in the library.

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