Lately, I hate my job. It's the most boring job a person could ever have. When I first started working here, I did my work really fast. I had something to prove. Now I realize proving something here means shit. Nobody in this world cares how fast you type an appraisal, not even an appraiser. So now I just do my work really slow. I had to slow down gradually so he wouldn't notice, but I got here. And I'm glad I did. Because now during the time it takes me to type an appraisal, I can email my friends, read funny stuff on Television Without Pity, fool around on Facebook, and write lame blogs, like this one. In fact, I'm typing an appraisal right now.
I don't hate my boss. He's a perfectly nice person with a family to support and all that jazz. It's not his fault he has such a boring job. Well, actually it is. What makes it worse is he is just always HERE. It's just him and me. Him and me. And he has this little office that's about 15 feet away. And I suddenly have these super senses, because whenever I hear like one little creak of his chair, I know he is getting up to come give me another fucking appraisal to type, so I really quick click back to my Winntotal program to make it look as if I were working the whole time. Sometimes I think he catches me but he never says anything about it. Maybe he doesn't care. Like I said, even appraisers don't care how fast you type an appraisal.
I am just so miserable right now, in this very moment. The clock hand just won't move. I feel like I'm in one of those gloriously twisted Dali paintings, and the clocks are like melting and dysfunctional. I hate my life. Every time the phone rings, I hate my life. It just rang. I just hated my life.
If you were to ask me in grade school what I would be doing right now, I can assure you it wouldn't be this. In all fairness, the Gwen in grade school thought a lot of things were going to happen that were never, ever going to happen. For instance I thought I would Live Forever In A Paradise On Earth. I thought I would get married to Kirk Cameron and have a thousand of his babies. I also checked out my career aspirations in the sixth grade: Writer. Awwww. Isn't that cute? What a moron sixth grade Gwen was. So many pie in the sky ideas, so little time.
<--------Moron
In case you haven't noticed, although I'm sure you have, I have a habit of using oft-repeated idioms in my writing. In this blog alone I've used four - "like nobody's business", "all that jazz", "pie in the sky", and "like a motherfucker". I realize it's one of my weaknesses as a writer. But in some ways, I also think it's my biggest strength. Also I think I'm going to need some major knee operations in the near future, because my knee? Still fucking hurting.
The thing about idioms is that some of them are just so funny. Like I never get over hearing "bee in my bonnet". Also, "Love of my life" cracks me up like nothing should.
If my boss puts one more thing in my bin, I'm going to lose my mind. Blood will be shed today in this office.
"Beat around the bush" makes me laugh obnoxiously and long. "Beat a dead horse". "Kill two birds with one stone". "Cock and Bull Story". "Dropping like flies". Come on! It's a little bit funny, no? Check this out: idioms. If that didn't make you laugh even once, then fuck me. I think part of why I think they're so funny is that when I say them, or they're said by others, I totally have an image in my head of what is actually being said. Like I picture a person with a bee in her bonnet, like what she would be doing if that happened. So in a nutshell (hee!), I love antiquated idioms. I would even put a bumper sticker (magnet, whatever) on my car advertising that. And you all know how much I hate bumper stickers. It's just that bringing antiquated idioms back into regular use is a cause I could really get behind.
But there are a few "turns of phrase", if you will, that are oft-repeated which really boil my blood. The first one I can think of is when a person writes something about himself and then he follows it with the words, "that says a lot about me". Now, I'm sure I've done this more than a few times myself. But I can readily admit that it's irritating. Here's why: It doesn't explain what it says about you at all. Could you maybe give me an example? If it says a "lot" about you, then you should be able to tell me at least one thing. If you do that, I'll leave you alone.If I say, "I listen to a lot of Def Leppard", which I do, and then say, "That says a lot about me", what does that really mean? Without any follow up, it's really just a cop-out way of seeming clever without having to say anything at all. And it's also a way of sort of disavowing what I just said. Because if I tell people that I like 80's music, and then say, "LOL That says a lot about me", it indicates that I'm sort of embarrassed about liking 80's music. But why should a person be embarrassed about what they like? I mean unless it's "I like child molesting in my spare time", what's with the shame?
Okay, the next time he puts something in my bin, I will lose my mind. And shed some blood.
The other phrase that drives me crazy (hee!) is "so many jokes, so little time" (or any similar phrase where you are talking about the possibility of a joke, or many jokes, but you don't actually deliver one). This phrase is usually said after something appears to contain material of comedic value, but actually does not. I know this because after I see that phrase, I try to find the joke(s) that the person is referring to, and I never can. Neither could the person who wrote it, but he thinks he should have been able to and he is very, very disappointed in himself. This is why he attaches the phrase "so many jokes, so little time". But the thing he needs to realize is that it's okay. Sometimes something isn't funny, even if it looks like it's supposed to be funny. Like my knee hurting right now. I wish that were funny. I wish I could make a joke about it. But I can't. There's nothing funny about knee surgery. No matter how hard you try.
You know what else isn't funny? Me and my pathetic excuse for a life and ideas. So if you're reading my stuff looking for laughs, then you're barking up the wrong tree. And if you think I can't cut the mustard, then don't cry over spilt milk; I'm used to going down like a lead balloon. Let's just get down to brass tacks and be honest. All right. I'm done.
Okay, one more. Go to Hell in a handbasket.
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