some things


I love Extra Virgin Olive Oil. I love it so much. It is bankrupting us.

In all my death-musing, I ironically neglected to mention all the recent dead-things-falling-from-the-sky media attention. It seems strange to me. I would like to understand why. I’m also completely prepared to blame the Republicans.

The test yesterday went fine but I had no opportunity to use my freshly sharpened #2 pencils. Lame. I got 75/80 questions correct and I was genuinely bothered to not have gotten 80/80 or at least 79/80. I passed, I will be referred to relevant vacant jobs. I doubt an “A+” would have made any difference to anyone. I’m ridiculous.

Oh yes, certainly! It has been my dream all along to have a clerical position in a state agency. I will process your words so dutifully and efficiently, whilst nurturing a deep joy in my heart! Interview now, please.

Seriously though, I would be quite happy with this and many similar jobs. I like office supplies. I like government health benefits. I like having my own money so that I can buy all the beautiful olive oils and soy candles and natural bath products that my cold, empty heart desires without the guilt of using my fiance’s debit card.

Speaking of, at the mall today, I used it for a $26.00 purchase at The Body Shop, which is apparently credit only. The clerk looked at it and said, “Um, can I see your ID?” I replied that she could but I was not Robert. You got me! She went to check with her manager and came back to say that I could do it “this one time” but I should sign my name and also leave my phone number, should there be a question later. Smart, as people using stolen credit cards are sure to leave their actual phone numbers. For the record, I would have been happy to buy the hand soap somewhere else and would have understood being refused, but thanks for the huge fucking favor, lady.

I was perhaps annoyed by her to an irrational degree. It’s just, they really want to talk to you and sell you things at The Body Shop. All three employees, despite the claustrophobic floor space, gathered around to cheerfully converse with me and act interested in me and my body product preferences. You don’t really think my Crocs are cute. It’s ok.