Well I’ll be damned. I honestly have nothing to say right now. I spent all day at work on Friday working on freelance projects. That’s damn near erotic, if you ask me. Doing freelance on The Man’s dime makes me hard.
Between my three gigs (full-time job, freelance, blog), I write all the goddamned time. I write at work. I write in the kitchen. I write on the sofa. I write in the home office. I’d write on the toilet, but to me, poop time is sacred. The only multi-tasking I do during poop time is tweezing, and even that is pushing it.
My muse is out to lunch, and to make things worse, the porn filter on my work computer has decided to flag Perez Hilton. Jesus, I can barely type his name without getting the urge to abandon this post and pay him a visit. Damn you, porn filter! I thought about visiting Juggs.com, so as to distract The Machine. A shell game, if you will. But I’d hate to set off that big alarm I assume is on my boss’s computer — the one that goes off whenever I hit a blocked site. What the fuck did people do at work before the Internet? Those must’ve been some dark times. My mind, it reels.
Well, starting today, I’m hunkering down. I’m going to abandon my sordid past and put in an honest eight hours of work. It may damn near kill me, but I’m going to do it. Not because I’m feeling guilty. Oh no no no. I have my quarterly review on Friday, and I find it hard to look boss woman in the eyes when my eyes are bloodshot from playing Shanghai at my desk.