Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries:

- The unreasonably nice Katie from WeLoveDC did an interview with me that is available here. I emailed it to my dad under the subject line: BE PROUD OF YOUR DAUGHTER. Instead of being proud, this happened:

From: Dad
To: Me
do you really think that Bret Michaels is anything but disgustingly sleazy?

From: Me
To: Dad
I think that Bret Michaels is an innovator who's donated thousands of dollars to juvenile diabetes (pronounced: die-uh-beet-us) charities around the world. What have you done lately?

From: Dad
To: Me
I'll tell you what I haven't done. Hung out with a bunch of skanky redneck chicks who have such frog belly low self-esteem that they would hook themselves to a has-been third tier rock star (the rock version of Screech) for a chance to be on a really, really, really bad reality show.

Wait, that actually doesn't sound all that bad.

I stopped responding after that.

- I would just like to explain the following ridiculousness that just transpired: Our company has a new product that I need to order a bunch of brochures for to give to our sales people. Normally when I need something, I email Pat in the Mail Room and he (she? he-she? What's that? It's Pat!) fills my order (that's what he/she/he-she said) and sends it to me. Yesterday I got a snippy little email from Pat being like, "In the future can you please use our website for literature requests? That's what it was made for." A little snippy, yes, but blokay, I can handle that. I went on our website this morning and submitted my order, per Pat's request. A window popped up that said, "Thank you for your request, a sales representative will be contacting you shortly." Then, not 5 minutes ago, Boss #1 called from the road to say she was forwarding me an email from someone in our area who's requested literature and could I fill it? I said yes. She then proceeded to forward me my own literature request that I sent earlier in the morning. For me to fill. For myself. With the literature that I don't have. Which is why I requested it in the first place. So, Pat, that is why I prefer to email you directly instead of using with the website, you gender-ambiguous A-fuck.

- During one of my recent anxiety induced bouts of insomnia, I googled "I can't sleep," because I trust two things in this world: Google and _____ for Dummies books. The first result was an article entitled "Can't Sleep? 15 Tips You Can Try for Insomnia." Tip #7 is:

7. Don't count sheep if you find that counting is stimulating for you.

That's like the fucking funniest sentence in the entire world to me. Because it was awfully considerate of them to include a tip that only applies to The Count from Sesame Street, a fictional puppet-based character.

- Ever since I failed to find my quest to find a pair of adequately Dynasty-esque nude-colored pumps to revive, I've moved on to stick pins. I don't know why I chose stick pins, I just know they're back and bigger than ever (in my mind and my mind only.) I won three on ebay last week and they arrived at my door Friday afternoon. In a moment of sheer excitement, I (alone in my apartment) unpacked them from their box and sang (out loud and to the tune of Justin Timberlake's SexyBack): "I'm bringin' stick pins back! Yeah! You other accessories don't know how to act! Yeah! Get your stick pins on get your stick pins on!" Immediately after that, the pendent on my favorite one broke off and rolled under the refrigerator. I'd like to think that's god's way of gently telling me to stop being such a douche bag.