Happy Birthday, Hannah!



Beaujolais Nouveau.

The toner is low. AND in the midst of this long stretch of late nights, our room was warned that our dry erase board should be erased because apparently people get angry when there are any signs of enjoying yourself at work written upon it. Dry Erase policy at the company is hard to navigate: the one in the lunch room can't be erased (three years and counting), and now the other ones can't be written on.

La goutte d'eau qui fait d├ęborder la vase.


Late Nights

I've survived the week from hell at work, but there's no sign that the coming weeks will be any different. That is frightening.

And I don't understand the way my brain works. Everything snowballs. I stay late at work, and then I resign myself to the mindset that "life sucks," which further leads me to reflect upon everything that supports this hypothesis, which by this point in the freaking out, is not difficult. Then I get so caught up in this thinking that I don't realize it's a BAD idea to try to open a can of soda between my legs while driving and the Diet Coke explodes all over my pants which at any other time might be quite hysterical but now demonstrates definitively that life sucks. Then I chastise myself for being so small-minded, because we all know things could be a lot worse than spilt Diet Coke and the darker thoughts that led up to it. So, how about those Mets?

Homecoming was fun. Sometimes I feel my heart is in Philadelphia; it is a very stubborn organ. (It could teach my bladder a few things. That boy needs some toughening up.) In reality, it's the people I met there that cause such a sentimental attachment to the physical place, whether the people happen to still be there, or in Peru, or in Belgium, or in Boston, or New York, or God Knows Where. Where they have traveled doesn't change the fact that when I return to Philadelphia it does indeed feel like going home.

Oh, don't be such a bitch, NJ. There's room enough for the both of you.