Well I've neglected this writing thing for a little while, partly because it was starting to seem like a diary and I couldn't figure out why I was writing a diary if random people could read it, but mostly because I had nothing to say. I still have not much to say, but have less to do, so there you go.
On Friday at work after I caught one Napoleon Complex-ed co-worker shamelessly under- and overcharging each U of M hottie and her Botoxed mom while he stared at their chests rather than the register, I teased him and he retorted by asking about my weekend plans. He, of course, would be pre-gaming, gaming, and post-gaming. I, of course, would be living the dreams of solitude. It would mean nights of heavy drinking for both of us, except he was probably not the one aspiring to make it through a whole box of Twinings by Sunday night. Tea consumption in this house is ridiculous. I am habitually 3-5 minutes late for everything due to last minute brewings, and my belly is an aquarium.
So while this co-worker is probably now catching the reflection of his toned biceps in the glint of his hair gel, I'm gulping chamomile and getting ready to watch sad naked people in Lust, Caution, my favorite movie I'm embarrassed to talk about. This plan doesn't go well with the current mood of the living room, dominated by some soprano mumbling hymns on Prairie Home Companion and my dad already asleep in last week's New Yorker. It's decidedly anti-lust. But that's how Saturday goes.
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