Gimme an A! Gimme a D! Gimme a, uh, ooh shiny!

I was just staring at my bank account (the savings, named “Paris”) for a moment and contemplating how badly I want to spend that twee little nest egg on a new ‘puter or a vacation or a lobotomy. And yet, for as much as I want, want, want, I am loath to spend the money burning a hole in my (theoretical) pocket.

(Off-topic, I have my iPhone’s iPod on shuffle and the last seven out of 10 songs were from Evanescence. Seems fitting.)

Where was I? I don’t know. Lost, I guess. I usually end up spending my savings on moving. And while that’s not out of the realm of possibility, I sure would like to use my “Paris” fund for, well, a city that has the full-sized Eiffel Tower in it.

(Ooh, Patton Oswalt bit came on. “Sprinkle some fries on those cupcakes!” Ha!)

Everyone seems to be collectively in PMS mode in my world. I personally ready to kill anyone who comes within three feet of me. I am actually purposely making myself unbearable to be around. (Yes, I know, I don’t have to try very hard to achieve that.)

I’ve got people in the offices on both sides of me on their speakerphones. I’m blasting Melissa Etheridge, Evanescence and Bon Jovi to keep myself sane, although I’m sure everyone else within earshot will agree that I am, in fact, annoying them — and not even on purpose!

It’s almost dunchtime (dinner/lunch/whatever — that’s the vernacular in these here parts). The moment I stepped away from my computer yesterday, all hell broke loose. So today I’ve chained myself to it. And besides, there’s usually that 11th-hour submission (er, 11 hours, 59 minutes and 58 seconds). Although today, I don’t think I’m getting one and so help me, I was finally prepared for it and my hyper-vigilance for nothing irritates me even more.

I keep making the joke that no one can cover us if we get hit by a bus, but that I hate that theory because, really, if any of us gets hit by one, it’d be because we jumped in front of it!

Oooh, five minutes till the witching hour. Oh, terrific, my Word AND Outlook just crashed. Screw it — I declare the witching hour to be now. Let the scavenging for dunch commence!

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