Wednesday, February 15, 2006


….and welcome to another profanity-laden post about nothing.

Why nothing? Because that’s what is happening. Still. If the phone had a some junk or a face I think that at this point I would be abusing it in both places. Since it doesn’t possess any of these abusable (that’s not even a word, is it?) qualities I sit and stare and continue dealing with the everlasting anticipation-induced heart attack.

Fuck me, this sucks, and not just a little. We’re talkin’ big giant donkey balls here. All of my money is in the middle, there’s one card to come, and no one can find the dealer.

So here’s the deal. I was supposed to know something one way or another by last Friday. With a few hours left in the day, I left the guy a message and heard nothing. There had been intermittent Exchange problems earlier in the week (duh, isn’t MS Exchange just a Spanish euphemism for “nothing but fucking problems from bloated software?”), and when I came in on Monday and caught up on email I found out the problems were more serious than normal. That would explain the lack of response I got. I decided to go for broke and sent an appropriately toned email inquiry. Here is the response…

Interviews are over at this time, and I’ve submitted an approval for hire. I can’t make any official offer until I get word, but that shouldn’t be more than another day or two.

This made me feel more positive. I figure that if I didn’t get the job he would have told me so since I gave him the easy out with an opportunity drop bad news through an email instead of a phone call. Thoughts?

I hate waiting.


There were no forts last night—I forgot to consider the hardwood floor angle. I didn’t have nearly enough soft blankets and it made the logistics of the thing a comfort impossibility. Disappointing, yes, but I’m still planning an alternate strategy in my pursuit of escape from adulthood.

The Shield, however, continues to be a triumph this season and was a nice consolation prize in lieu of my fort-building aspirations. Each episode sends me on a fresh tear of wondering why Forest Whittaker doesn’t get more consistent props and loudly speaking about the collective crime that is his underratedness (that’s two non-words and counting). The guy is simply awesome.


I had a dream last night about a Christmas present Rachel and I received this year from her grandparents. It was a foil lined bag with some sort of god-awful country décor design on the outside. I had no idea what it was or what is was for. Then I read the card inside..

“Enjoy a nice baked potato cooked in this bag.”


While I’m not searching for any deeper meaning in the dream and trying not to wonder why the hell it appeared there to begin with, it did get me wondering. When you get to be a grandparent, do your gifts become strange because of advancing age and senility or because you just don’t give a shit any more? I imagine that when my time comes it will definitely be the latter. What? You don’t like your gift? Whatever, I’m oooold.

See? I told you today would be a bunch of nothing. To make sure that I fulfill my profanity promise, I leave you with this quote:


Hey, the guy had Tourette’s, what can you do?