At a loss for words.

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, 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.

Two week honeymoon.

Is there anything finer than the final two weeks of your job? Once you have given your two weeks notice and all the awkward “so I hear you’re leaving” coversations are out of the way, it’s one sweet ride. Bear with me while I pontificate.

I have made numerous trips to the supply room, rooting for goodies that I may or may not need in the next decade or two (“Clear transparency sheets. Hmmm. I could use them to create a protective covering for my home’s windows in case of a nuclear attack. I could even tape them together to make a giant slip-and-slide in my backyard.”)

No more listening for the pitter patter of boss feet traipsing down the hallway (and the resulting paranoid closing of my beloved, carpal-tunnel inducing Mah-Jong). “Maybe if I tape my wrist, I can play one more round…”

No more spastic searches for my computer’s volume, after opening an annoying sound-embedded email. No, I don’t want to hear about the angel who’s watching over me. If she was really there, she would be shielding me from your mind-numbing emails. I don’t care what my porn star name is, or if I am indeed a redneck. And no, I don’t want to give myself good luck for seven years by forwarding this to 50 of my friends. Good luck is pretty much moot when you’re being drawn and quarterd by everyone on your email list. Girlfriend, maybe I’ll start taking your advice when you relegate that Bon Jovi shirt to a burn barrel, and you remove the battallion of ribbon magnets from your precious two-door Explorer Sport. All the petroleum used to fuel that shitbox and create those ridiculous symbols of urban protest could’ve ended the war by now.

No more generic phone conversations with my husband: “Yes, I’m cutting out early today so I can swing by Target and buy more K-Y for tonight. Should I get the econo-tub this time?”

And for once, I can gleefully turn down those invitations to pyramid-scheme “parties” that prey on women’s friendships, careers and pocketbooks. Let’s get one thing straight. It’s not a party if it invovles me coming to your house and giving you money.

Soon, I will be at a new job, and my two-week honeymoon will be over. I will have to resume all paranoid behaviors that mask my rampant disregard of office time and resources. But until then, I’m in slacker heaven. Jeez. Maybe I should quit my job more often.

Countdown to Khakiland.

I’ve been a little withdrawn since last week, having made zero posts since then. But a lot of shite has been going down. I was offered the job at the Evil Empire (I used to work there, before here, and now want to return to sop up all those glorious benefits).

They had to be tightwads and lowball me on salary. C’mon people! So, all my energies since then have been spent on dickering (if you’ve ever bought a car, you know how much energy that can take). I finally got them up to an acceptable figure, so now it’s official – I start in two weeks. And so the Countdown to Khakiland begins.