2004-04-21..12:47 p.m.

Roar sent me a link to his radio station. Apparently he fell on the wrong side of a custard cream wager on his show and had to streak the town centre in the nud. I wish I had his job and could go running about town making bets and losing. This morning has been thus:

All On Own. Meetings Everywhere. Phones Won�t Shut Up. Coffees Teas Photocopies Faxes Printing. Ushering Left and Right Because Apparently the Sign that Says SEMINAR THIS WAY Is Not Clear Enough. Does No One Else Know How To Fix A Stapler? No? Just Me Then? Fake Smile Becoming Frozen. Brain Tingling. I�M NOT FUCKING SUPERWOMAN, PEOPLE!

(I actually just thinking about that gets me all squirmy with how it might actually effect things: our hot lesbian love action accelerating my coping abilities, or somehow influencing my own personal time-warp continuum mechanisms and letting me speed zippily about the office getting things done in mere seconds as opposed to whole minutes and half-hours.) (Also because it�s fucking true. Jesus, people, how hard is it to load up a couple of staples.)

Couldn�t sleep for bronchial fits and thus woke up far too late this morning, leaving the house looking like an emo soccer mom; all wet hair and soggy tissues, various pieces of groceries that will eventually be assembled into a pack lunch flying behind me as I hurtle down the road trying to hitch up my too-big boy jeans. Find me a station wagon full of puke-stained ten year-olds and a crap punk band and I�m set.

My *love* life has turned into a sordid game of table tennis, in which I am the ball and indecision the paddles and my little rump is getting as battered as this metaphor would suggest. What is it with British boys and the firm hand? Not that I�m complaining, this brand of slap and tickle I really do quite enjoy, but lordy. Things are heading the illicit affair direction with one, and that information alone boggles. The other is decidedly Wait and See. In which tonight I may be able to see, as we might be working together. This is not doing me any good, any of it. I�m all thumpy chest and heaving breast, and frowny half-smiles of secret guilty delight. In general, that�s not a bad place to be. But the situation is a brainfuck, not a hearttease, leaving me a potentially hideous wreck of my own doing. And my eczema is really popping today.

I�m beginning to think that fucking superwoman would just be so much easier. And way cooler to brag about to friends. Who wouldn�t be mad with envy at the thought of it.