Don't be a Mexi-can't, be a Mexican!

Now that I am back at work, it feels good to actually use my brain for at least eight hours a day again. Everyone has been gushing over me, telling me how much they missed me, and how great it is to have me back, and how the office just wasn’t as fun with me gone. Now, as nice as that is to my fragile little ego, it’s even better that all those wonderful things can be heard by that backstabbing, conniving, schizophrenic bitchwore (can you sense some bitterness?) Celestia. I know it is driving her crazy to have to hear every word of it.

Also, I heard one of the funniest things ever while I was talking to one of my favorite co-workers, Margie yesterday. In her spare time, she makes really nice jewelry that she sells for extra cash. She was showing me some that she had just made (some of which I promptly stole for myself), and offered a pair of earrings to an older lady that works downstairs with her, a Greek-born staunch Republican named Sylvia. Sylvia gasped, and told Margie, “I don’t have pierced ears!! What do I look like? A Mexican?”

I am not quite sure what Mexicans have to do with piercing your ears, but I laughed my ass off when I heard that.

Sometimes, racism IS funny!

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Tomorrow is my Mom’s birthday and I have no clue what to buy her. I am the worst gift giver ever, because unless someone specifically says what they want, I usually never know what the fuck to buy. And, considering my utter disdain for any type of mall whatsoever, shopping and browsing for ideas is pretty much out of the question.

My stupid sister, Jackie, who is excellent in the gift-giving capacity, has been zero help to me. Bitch.

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I am becoming a Diaryland whore in my dreams. Last night I had yet another dirty dream about a diarist I read (not the same person in the first dream). The thing is, I have no idea what this guy looks like, but in my dream he was incredibly hot… smart, built, tan… gorgeous. I don’t know what brought the dream on, really. I sent him an email about an entry about a week ago, but that’s all the thought I have dedicated to this guy. Hmmm. I don’t care where it came from. It was hot.

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I was thinking about that dipshit that stood me up on Saturday, and it really got me. I mean, I don’t understand this game that people play. If he never had any intention of meeting in the first place, why contact me? Why ask me out? Why even agree to a set-up when his friend says “hey, [asshole], I know a fantastically awesome kickass smoking hot girl you should go out with”? Ok, maybe our mutual friend didn’t exactly put it that way. But whatever. The guy is still a big pussy in my book.

All I want is a guy who’s not a complete ass, has a brain, can make me laugh, and is a good kisser. Is that too much to ask?

I don’t think so.

Alright then. So, to the brainy funny guy who likes to make out that’s reading this: Email me! Call me! I put out!! Well, ok. Maybe the “put out” thing is not guaranteed. Whatever. Just find me already.