[my last installment of complains was very well received, and given that I'm constantly upset with everything, my complaining for the sake of complaining is anything but over. I've barely even scratched the surface, in fact. I'm scared for myself, because I can totally picture me being a Clint Eastwood type of elderly man in the distant future yelling at the wind and chasing the kids on my lawn away with a hose, or if their use is entirely legalized and I somehow come to possess one, my shotgun]
I forced myself to buy pizza again from my store on lunch, and for precautions, I let it cool down for twenty minutes before I ate it as to save the skin on the roof of my mouth. Is it skin, really? My complaint now is that the pizza was crap.
Misfortune accompanied me to my shift this morning as when I lifted something at work I heard a massive tear and what do you know, I'd ripped my pants. I'll neglect to say where, but you can imagine that if I were promiscuous, my customers could have been treated to a lil sumthin else with their checkout should I move my leg. That is a slutty and repulsive sentence, but I think you get the picture. Regardless, my embarrassment shot through the roof, and I stole away to call my mom, panicked, as I begged her to somehow produce a new pair of black pants that I may wear for the remainder of the shift. An eternity later and I had a replacement pair.
My work shoes still suck, and this eight hour shift brought about ridiculously late breaks. The thing is, I like when breaks are late, because if it means slaving away for a few more minutes now, I know that there'll be less to do when I return. It was a bit of a stretch, though, to have my last break at 3:30 only to return for fifteen minutes before I was relieved and ended my shift. Visit me at the time and I'll cry out for you to cut off my feet in mercy.
That HBO show Girls is confusing me. I've decided to watch both Girls and Veep with Julia Louis-Dreyfus as they air back-to-back after Game of Thrones (and, soon enough, True Blood - and now I'll complain that Game of Thrones is over soon and I'm pretty sure that my favourite character will not survive; preparing for a silent vigil for Robb, I feel like he's a dead man), and I've heard good things about both. Girls, though.. I just don't know. It's very well written, and Lena Dunham is obviously talented - creator, writer, star, director, producer - but at times I'm completely uninterested in the mundane yet blatantly-hipster things going on on the television. The other thing is is that it's just a little bit unattractive; I understand Ms Dunham is comfortable with her obvious out-of-shape physique, and I understand that the purpose of the show is to encapsulate this reality, but it's just ugly sometimes. Marnie's not.
It's too goddamn hot. I woke up this morning so drenched I might've just jumped out of the shower or the pool. The leather couch I am sitting on currently is sticking to my arms and back as if it just can't quit me, and I hate this goddamn couch. My family hasn't yet turned on the air conditioner.
Kristen Wiig's last episode of Saturday Night Live aired on Saturday, and jesus, I'm sad. I woke up Sunday morning still as drunk as I was as I went to bed at night, so I think that contributed to my absolute bawling as the entire cast and Lorne Michaels gave her a goodbye.
I can't believe Fifty Shades of Grey has been published, and I haven't been.
There's this motherfucker of a bird who lives directly outside of my bedroom window and as my parents have yet to turn on the AC and give me sweet, sweet salvation from Burlington's current phase as being a rebellious sauna, my windows are wide open all night long. It's bad enough that at my angle on my bed a street light shines directly into my room, but this bastard of a bird chirps like it owns the whole world at five in the morning.
This leather couch is attempting to fuse itself to me to make sure I never leave it.. I'm certain.