There is a time in life when you realize you are just going to blog one day per week. That is my current realization. There it is. I am putting it out there in the universe. Will it change? Maybe. I don’t want to be one of those people who abandon my blog. I’ve been doing this and people have been not caring since 2004. Let’s continue, shall we?
First, the photo portion of your show. My show (Stitch Rock) comes in one week. I STILL have not received my work schedule for next week. So maybe they have me working on Saturday? Who the fuckity fuck fuck knows? I turned in my request a month ago. I panic about these things. Will I find out when I go in today at 2? Your guess is as good as mine.
Don’t worry, I’ve made more than hats…
Work, well, it sux. I really hate this job, what can I tell you. But you know, one must endure if one wishes to eat and pay bills. For everyone who says, “Oh it must be great to work in a bookstore!? I say, “Are you on crack?” I don’t think it’s great even in those bastions of indiedom, Powells or The Strand. But here in corporate land, la, but it’s dismal.
Folks, ever time a person buys Bill O’Reilly’s new book, an angel dies. At least that’s what I tell my fellow employees.
Every time someone buys a new eReader, why is it the first book they download for it an “I hate Obama” book? You know what I’m talking about. Now look, I don’t think he’s exactly doing a great job, but neither do I think he’s Satan incarnate….
Also, would the old man who brought his eReader for me to fix please explain why he had a copy of “Six Sexy Stories on it, in addition to the usual Clive Cussler shit? Please, I can’t even give you the titles of the sexy six, or I will be loaded with pron spam by tomorrow. Sigh. And to think he shook my hand. Thank God I found the hand sanitizer my boss stole from me. Bastard!
And to the sanctimonious twatwaffles who ponce about yelling at me that they never want to buy an eReader because they have “A library of 25,000 books!” Well, your cleaning bill and infestation of silverfish must stink. Go pitch a tent. Gah! Yesterday I told a woman who felt the need to yell at me when I hadn’t even approached or spoken to her (because I don’t roll like that) “Lady, I’m not tying you down and forcing you to buy one, mkay?”
And laws, the creepers. Oh, my legion of store boyfriends needs to leave me alone, and stat. Or my husband is going to come after them with a baseball bat.
But in conclusion, I finally had to crack down on the Oprah-sanctioned reading list followers. These lemmings are all running to Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom like it is cherry-covered cheescake. Last week I asked a woman if she read everything Oprah told her to. Yes I did!
And finally, when a man asked if I’d read it yesterday and wouldn’t take my standard “No I have not,” for an answer, instead pressing me for a why, I gave him a reason.
“I don’t read books about miserable white people.”
And so you have been schooled my friends. Until next week!