Come on and spread a sense of urgency

Let me ask you a question, PGE.
How do you expect me to pay my bill if the account number you gave me is invalid?

When the website is telling you one thing but the bill is telling you another--AND NEITHER OF THEM WORK--what do you do?

Here's what the website says:

"Your account number is at the top left corner of your monthly bill."
-My account number is at the top right corner, thank you very much.
"Enter the full 12 digits of your account number including the dash. Such as:
1234567890-1"
-That is only eleven digits, PGE, and my account number looks like this*:
0098 77678-9873467 2 (*account number has been changed for my "protection")

I may or may not... have to bust a cap in somebody's ass.
God, these people.

I sense there's something in the wind.

I feel like I should share what I just read on Yahoo! News:

"Mars may mess you up: Astrologers believe that the red planet in retrograde could be making your life very strange."

Oh, Yahoo! News, reporting on the important issues--as always.

The man across from me is having a mental breakdown of some sort. He keeps wiping his palms on his pants and rocking back and forth.
I'm waiting for him to crank up the Radiohead and sob into his hands.

The only reason I'm back on the internets today is because this is my only free night until I'm forced to perform a seven day stretch for el Macy's.
All. Closing. Shifts.
I'm almost 100% certain my manager is punishing me for even thinking about asking for time off at the beginning of the month.
"What? You have family you want to visit before the crazy holiday season? That's preposterous, why would you even suggest such a thing?"
The way she looks at me when I speak to her frightens me; I'm waiting for laser beams to shoot out of her eyes with the intention of melting my face off. When I asked if we could possible switch the schedule up a little so I didn't have to close every night of my life she looked at me like I had just asked her to give me three weeks paid time off so I could go gamble all of my paychecks away in Atlantic City.
Then scheduled me for closing all week.

Ah, such is the life of retail sale.

Burn That Broken Bed

Only six hours left on my iTunes movie download.

Little does the boy behind the counter know, by giving me a free piece of cake he basically saved my life because I was seconds away from passing out from hunger.
Upon recent reviews of my bank statement, I have come to realize that 90% of my money goes to unnecessary eating out.
So--aside from my normal thirty cups of coffee--I vowed that today is a day of eating in.
Unfortunately, when you go out for eight hours at a time you're bound to get hungry sooner or later...
Thank you, Boy Behind The Counter, you saved us all from an embarrassing rush to the hospital.



My extended absence from it has reminded me of how much I hated the internet.
More specifically: Myspace.
I wonder, when did friendships turn into a series of short and misspelled comments that have absolutely no substance instead of personal conversations that extend passed such scintillating phrases as, "Do you like my hair better blond or brown?" and "I bought a new jacket today, I'm so excited!"

Yet agan, I find myself avoiding the normal crowd of friends as much as possible.

What sort of experience during the adolescent stage causes a person to need someone to hold their hand for every possible situation?
Why does someone need to go out every single night to see and be seen? Since when does sitting at home--alone--reading a book or watching a movie qualify as insufficient social behavior?

I feel like it's partly my fault that I'm so irritated with folk lately because I'm not firm enough when I say that I need to spend time alone.
"We should all have a dinner party or something! We can cook for the boys and dress up!"
"Well, I really only have one night off this week and I wanted to kind of have some quiet time and--"
"You have nights off, don't you? We hardly ever see each other!" (This is a complete exaggeration, I see all of them at least four times a week.)
"Well, I guess that's true---"
"Great! What should we make?! We should have the guys dress up and we can serve them dinner, it'll be so much fun!"

I wonder, which "guys" is she talking about? I certainly don't have one. And the couple of folk that I would want to invite would tear she and her boyfriend apart so quickly they would have no idea what happened.
They'd just run out the door... crying... holding their shattered egos in their sweaty little hands.

Ouch.

Or, the even more painful situation that I've found myself in on more than one occasion:

"I need to get some jeans even though I already have five pairs. Would you mind going with me on Tuesday night?"
"Er, I have to work all day and I won't be off until six and then I kind of wanted to do a bit of reading and writing."
"Oh, but I hate going alone! Please, you can write any time."
"Well, I guess I could--"
"Excellent! See you at six! You can stand around and watch me shop and try on clothes! I'm so excited!!!1111!one"

I always wonder, are they excited to see and spend time with me or are they excited to do these things and I'm just there as a receiver of their constant chatter?

Angst, angst, angst.

Now that my old glasses are gone and I have acquired my new "sexy librarian" glasses, I'm starting to doubt my ability to take on the reputation that comes with such glasses as these.
Let me explain, my old glasses walked the line of adolescent and college bookworm. They were quiet and unassuming, they did not attract attention but they got the job done.
These glasses are chic and fashionable, they are animal print for Christ's sake. They say to people, "I like to read but I also like to look good."
I'm not quite sure I have the energy for such an image; the male hipsters in the cafes are starting to hover.

I have the overwhelming urge to say to the guy behind the counter, "Your beard is good. Just a compliment for you."
If he has any idea what I'm talking about, we are meant to be.

Neighborhood # 3 (Power Out)

I love this cafe because in addition to the stressed-out, caffeine-fueled, pre-med students you get the stressed-out, caffeine-fueled "artists."
A (tall, dark and handsome) man just stormed in, shortly ordered a double americano, sat down and feverishly started drawing something.
What he's drawing, I can't quite make out (it is "under construction" at the moment) but I will be curious to see what it is once he's finished.

Do you think he was just sitting around somewhere and all of a sudden thought to himself, "I need coffee and my sketchbook. RIGHT. NOW."
He was on a mission to find a seat and start drawing.
When I write I don't drop everything and rush off. I wait. I formulate.

This must be why I don't consider myself an artist.
They're all so temperamental anyway.



I wonder, can you block bulletins of folk on Myspace without having to delete them as friends?
I'm sick of being fooled by a subject line that says something like, "Important!"
And when I open it, it says, "I need your opinion! Does my hair look better blond or brown?! I can't make a decision for myself and need the opinion of my peers to make myself feel acceptable to society! Help me!!111!11one"
Maybe I should just get some new friends.

Ah, the artist has finished; he found no inspiration in this particular coffee shop.