Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Hi. I'm bitchy.

It's probably just because I was really hungry, that I wanted to beat the headlights of the ginormous white truck in. Of course, the owner of the behemoth had no idea that I was stuck working the late shift tonight, and therefore threw my eating pattern out of whack, and made me twice as angry about his ridiculous park job.

Dear driver of the ginormous white truck:

We live in an alley, albeit an alley that merges with a parking lot. It's difficult enough to maneuver in the alley on a good day (what with the vehicles parked on the far curb) without that gas guzzling monument to your penis making the egress even narrower, and blocking the (already tenuous) view of oncoming traffic. With the entire raft of free spaces available, I'd suggest taking a space a bit further from the street next time, or you shall face my squirrely wrath.

The girl who would ram your truck over and over again if her damn front end didn't totally fit under the side of your vehicle.

Maybe I was just in a bad mood because I'm too fucking young to be hearing what my doc had to say today... namely, I've got high cholesterol. I suppose this officially makes me old. Great. And it's not even like I eat shitty food. God, I haven't had a french fry in months, and eat red meat maybe once a week. I cook with olive oil, rarely use butter or margarine, and snarf grains and veggies like they're going out of style... the last time I went to Sonic with P? I HAD A DAMN SALAD, people. A salad with lowfat dressing even. Granted, I do love my quesadillas, and I suppose that will no longer be my backup order when we go out. I'll have to indulge my love at home, where I control the ingredients and the portions. And I'll cut out everything else, if I have to, but I adamantly REFUSE to give up my Snyders Hot Buffalo Wing Pretzel Pieces. You will pry that bag out of my (sausage fingered) hand, after I have the big one. Because those bastards are laced with crack, and I am not giving them up.

In the midst of my freak-out to my director, she said "well, you really do eat pretty healthily. How long have you been doing that?" I told her it had only been since March... she thinks I'm probably OK- that maybe my cholesterol was much higher, and could be down- we'll never know the true numbers... But basically, the doc sez: low fat diet, and lose a little ass or we'll be forced to drug you.

Ma sez: Yeah, you could stand to lose a little ass, but don't forget- your aunt never could get he cholesterol down without drugs, so it might just be your shitty genes (and you're welcome).

I sez: Fuckit. As long as the neuro doesn't tell me I've got a tumor tomorrow*, I can deal with this geezer stuff. (It's not like I don't have to get my pants around my ass on a daily basis- it could stand to shrink.)

Maybe I should have thrown that stapler at the back of my coworker's skull today. Might have made me feel less crabby. (In addition to not being able to retain information she has been given verbally, we can include "not able to retain written directions" either. Oh, and "too stupid to remember to consult the manual." Hate.)

More to come. Happy 4th everyone, if I don't get back before then.

*Just seeing him for the headaches. I don't think I have a tumor, just shitty genes.


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