I know that since you got the news yesterday about my dust mite allergy that you've been hoping and praying and writing your congressmen and so on, but I'm still here. I want my bravery to inspire others. I particularly liked it when you told me in the comments that it's okay to let go.
Hey, did I ever show you guys m'bunny slippers? Hang on; my cankles and I will be right back with them...
Right? Adorbs. I am 51 years old. But a young 51. One might even say a stunted 51.
Yesterday was another run-aroundeldy day that included me having to go to the store and buy absolutely everything.
It was payday, thank god, so I got
- toilet paper (have been using black party napkins from my Ima Die Alone party, WHICH IS SEEMING NOT SO FUNNY NOW)
- cat food (we were 100% out as of yesterday morning, and you wanna talk about writing your congressman. There was some very pointed sitting in the window thing and staring going on at my abode)
- and also hair gel. Was completely out of hair gel. You know that's never good when it comes to Voltaire Hair, over here.
I go to that store now like some sort of underworld spy. It's not Ned's first store choice, in fact it's probably his third or fourth, but it's not like he never goes in there. I keep my eye on the beer aisle like a hawk. Did you ever watch those nature shows where hawks watch the beer aisle?
I also had to buy decaf. THANKS, GOD. The doctor convinced me caffeine's terrible for my GERD and my migraines, so I'm--oh god--WEANING off of it. Today, instead of two and a half scoops of wonderful real coffee, I had one and a half real and one fake fake fakety knockoff Prada unreal can't be trusted decaf. It's like I'm drinking the second Chris from The Partridge Family.
Dammit. "Your migraines will be so much better," he said, and what the fuck does he know. Stupid medical degree.
Everything I love is leaving.
At least I have this nose. And this yahoo of a catten. I look exhausted. I was exhausted. On top of my King Kamehameha trip to the store, I also distributed the newsletter at work, which is three floors of offices. Well. Three floors of horrible open floor plan, and because people ended up needing more and so on, I ended up going up and down those three flights, like, five times and MY KNEES OH MY GOD.
I've turned into one of those old people who discusses her ailments.
Look how Steely Dan is already learning that you look at the phone when it's pointed at you. What a good blog kitty.
I guess I'd better get ready for work and so on, power through the dust mite allergy. I just have to keep on keepin' on. Tote the weary load.
How many of you are sick of me yet? Is this it? Or can I keep on going? Cause you know Ima keep on going.
Oh, and in case you wondered, I dropped off Edsel's Prozac prescription yesterday to my dynamic pharmacist, and as usual she wants to "call the doctor" about something first. Calling the doctor is very big with her. As big as her personality. Actually yesterday she actually spoke sentences to me, told me a little story about her life. Maybe she's someone who's kind of beige till she gets to know you and then you finally get to taste her rainbow once she's comfortable.
I hate people like that. Get over it. Just be dynamic right away. Repel everyone with every nuance of your personality within minutes, the way I do.
There's a woman who sits behind me now in the endless open floor plan. She's only been there a few weeks. At the end of the day recently, I said, "If anyone's looking for me tomorrow, I have a doctor's appointment." Naturally, I took time out to interrupt her flow at work to tell her about my allergy test. Of course, neither one of us would have any idea how tragic the results were going to be.
"So when you finally do get in tomorrow, you'll be in a bad mood," she said. Then she paused. "I mean, why should tomorrow be different?"
Oh! We have a SOUPY SALES in our midst, apparently! Hmph! Bad mood. I mean, just cause I tell everyone not to say "good morning" to me, and I hate "Thank you!" emails.
Oh god, I do. We get ENOUGH email in a day. Then you send someone something, in other words you do your job, and you get YET ANOTHER email.
Thank you! : )
Fuck my very existence.
I had the last round of millennials fully versed in the don't-send-June-a-thank-you-email, but since then we have pretty much all new Alexes who need to learn anew how to avoid the crabby elderly lady over there in the cardigan.
Oh, god. Have I become the office character? No. That's still Griff, right?
Decaffeinatedly,
June
