1. I have received a few e-mails expressing concern over my state of mind since entry #420. I would like to comfort all concerned with the fact that I have not hidden under my adult blanky out of a sense of sheer futility in at least two days, nor have I drunk myself into oblivion.

    I have been eating junk food and sleeping at every available opportunity, but that's to be expected when you're me and it's February and you're in the dark pit of a Saskatchewan winter waiting on tenterhooks for that first morning when the sun tips up over the horizon before you have to crawl into your windowless, fluorescent work environment for another sunless eight hours, only to find that the sun is already setting when you leave.

    But really, I am feeling slightly less hopeless than I was four days ago. If this keeps up, I just might be able to get my adult blanky into the laundry without feeling separation anxiety.

  2. I just had an ick-filled office washroom experience. Firstly, I walked in to face a toilet with its seat and lid up. I don't think it's fair that I have to deal with touching all these extra surfaces on a public toilet just because it was a man who went wee before me, but I did have to go, so I tipped them over with the very tips of two fingers on my non-dominant left hand and tried not to think about how often I habitually stick my fingers in my mouth.

    Secondly, when I was lowering the seat and lid, I noticed that the toilet had not been flushed after said man went wee. I wanted to track him down and let him in on a fact he may have missed: this is an office, not a hippie commune.

    Thirdly, while I was getting down to whatever business I had to do in there, I looked down at the floor, where I like to make patterns out of the mottled tile-work by de-focusing my eyes, and I was confronted with somebody's pube. I am no prude, but random and unexpected pubes in public places are yucky, especially when I can't figure out how a pube came to rest so far away from the toilet in such a large bathroom. I found myself analyzing the pube for colour and thickness in order to deduce who in my office this particular pube may have leapt from, and then found myself imagining things that far outweighed the ickiness of my present bathroom situation.

    For the rest of the day, I will have to use the other office bathroom, the pubeless one with a previously flushed toilet with the lid and seat down.

  3. Lest you thought I was blogging on work time, it is my lunch hour. I am telling you this so that I can segue into the fact that the soup I bought for lunch has this notable undertone of Pl@y-D0h. I have had this problem before, and I can't for the life of me figure out what would do this except Pl@y-D0h itself.
  4. I have this particular pair of underwear, which I am wearing today, that is tight and rides up my butt cheeks. I have spent months wondering how it could have suddenly shrunk that much or if it was that I was unknowingly gaining weight. Today, during my icky office bathroom experience, I found out that it was neither situation. I noticed the little size tag was still attached to them, and there was an "S" on it. An "S"! I haven't been an "S" since high school, and even then, it was questionable. I must have been drunk the last time I went underwear shopping. Or blind. Or blind drunk. This postulation is supported by the fact that there is a stupid, puffy, rubbery flower on the front. And maybe I was also six.
  5. I have deduced that the Pl@y-D0h flavour in my tomato penne soup is coming from the incongruous dispersement of undercooked chick peas.
  6. I seriously don't want to know what this kid is about to do with that syringe and his dog, even if the dog does look happy about it.

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  7. I was sharing a few e-mails with a reader last night, and she asked me why I wasn't in Amsterdam with all the other famous bloggers doing whatever it is they're all doing there. Nothing against dunnster, because it was very nice to exchange e-mails with her, but oh, ha ha ha. Ha ha hahaha ha ha ha haha ha ha ha ha ha hahaha ha ha ha. Heh. That's hilarious.

    I receive few enough hits that I recognize a lot of the visitors that come up on my stat counter. I don't get enough hits to sell advertising here. They'd fly me to Amsterdam only to find out that all I could offer them in return would be an audience of a few hundred people and a handmade washcloth.