We interrupt this week's love-fest for the rantings of a raging homicidal maniac.
Well, it’s official. I’m back in Real Life mode. I have already mentally plotted the vicious murder of two complete strangers on my way into the city this morning – one for deciding to stop directly in front of the subway turnstile to dig around in her elephantine bag for her Metrocard and the other for some total asshat who felt compelled to walk down the sidewalk with a fucking patio umbrella because the sky was pissing a little rain.
I've got an awesome idea, you dumb twat. Just stand here and block the entry for everyone behind you and maybe someone will bludgeon you to death with their briefcase.
And then when I got to work, I realized my cute and adorable outfit actually wasn’t all that cute and adorable after all. It was grotesque and made me question my mental stability.
I looked like a wrinkly pile of douchery.
I mean, really. It looked like Cyndi Lauper and Laura Ingalls got into a knock-down drag-out fight and my outfit was the gruesome aftermath.
I’m sure everyone has had those days – the ones where you think you look fabulous when you prance out the door but by the time you get to work you realize you actually look like a clown-school reject and there isn’t bubkis you can do about it, short of stuffing your entire body under your desk and praying no one comes looking for you.
So, yeah, there I was, sitting at my desk wearing an outfit that would have looked supah cute and all Punky Brewster-ish if I was four.
Except that I’m not four. I’m 32, going on 33. I looked like a color-blind hobo on peyote.
Oh, and want to know what the cherry on top of my outfit-fail sundae was??? My boots squeaked. Which two coworkers pointed out to me with merciless glee. They didn’t squeak this morning when I left the house, so clearly these boots are fucking assholes, because they’re squeaking now.
It was as if my shoes thought the clusterfuck that was my outfit needed audio commentary or something -- *squeak squeak* HEY! LOOK AT THE SHITSHOW WALKING TO GET A CUP OF COFFEE! *squeak squeak* LOOOOOOK!!! *squeak squeak*
At one point I found myself sitting at my desk, squeezing my eyes closed and clicking my squeaky boots together like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Except that I didn’t want to go to Oz because Latchkey is probably right and they would mistake me for one of those Lollipop Kids, especially in the ridiculous getup I decided to throw on today.
JMFHF!! Were these dudes always this terrifying?!?! I would want to get the fuck out of Oz if I saw these guys, too.
Instead I chanted “There’s no place like Forks...There’s no place like Forks...There's no place like Forks...”
It didn't work. When I opened my eyes, my boss was looking at me even more strangely than before so I shut the fuck up and got back to work.
But, yeah, I wish I was still in Forks.