Last night I had my first stranger comment on my pregnancy. As I was paying for sandwiches (have I mentioned my love of Which Wich, yet? Oh, I will. It deserves its own post), the twenty something cashier asks, "How's the baby?"  I looked up at him with a mix of disbelief and joy. My coworkers who know -- no one in my department yet -- keep telling me I don't look pregnant. One thinks I'm punking everyone. When she saw my Facebook post she didn't believe me. "I thought, that's just some weird joke she's posting." What the hell kind of impression have I made that people assume that an ultrasound picture of a real life fetus growing inside of me can't be real? I wouldn't joke about that, Jesus.

The cashier's face grew red. "Oh, the baby? It's good," I finally said, fighting the urge to mess with him. What baby?

"The moment that came out of my mouth, I regretted it. I'm glad I wasn't wrong."

"No worries, there's a baby in here. I was just surprised because you're the first person to notice, or more like, the first person to mention it."

His female co-worker looked at him with incredulous amusement, "You're not supposed to say anything!"

So my uterus is finally jutting out. We think it's a boy. I've named him Nikolai, though Eugenio won't have any of that. We find out officially in a couple of weeks.

Your pee stinks and it's too yellow. You need to drink more water.

This is what marriage is like. I constantly analyze the piss he refuses to flush.

"Don't they serve bread here?" I ask with not a hint of patience. At a certain point, I'd rather embarrass myself by eating two loaves of stale bread than wait an extra 30 minutes for my meal.

"Yeah, they serve the chocolaty bread here."

That made my night. My 31 year old husband, chief fellow in oncology referring to rye bread as "the chocolaty bread." He does this from time to time, renaming ordinary items, making me so so happy. He also still asks me, "Now which ones are the white cheeses?" when selecting the fixings for his sandwich, even though I've answered that question no less than 30 times now. He doesn't like "the yellow cheese."

A patron recently called to ask me the author of a book she caught her niece reading. "They're into weird stuff, alternative universes and what not. Her mother lets her read that stuff too." It was a Deen Koontz novel; I let her know, assuming she'd be relieved. I mean, right? At least she's reading. She thanked me adding, "I research these authors. Most people don't, but I do. That Harry Potter author, she's a witch you know."

I answered by blinking my eyes.

She continued. "I read a 23 page report, it's true. A witch. No wonder these kids turn out so demented."

"OK, well is there anything else I can research for you?"

"Oh, I bet you're into that stuff too. Sorry if I offended you. Bye." Click. Ugh, muggles.

So it's all J.K. Rowling's fault.

I'm on my last 65 minutes of work before a 10 day break. Thank gawd.

This is going to be a very stream of consciousness post because I feel the need to spread my sadness and anger out into the world, too.

Probably like most people, I could not sleep last night. I couldn't stop thinking about those little kids, teachers, and their family members. Fucking five year olds. Who's heart isn't breaking? What the hell is wrong? I heard a father of students who attend the elementary school on NPR saying he was just having a conversation about a mass shooting with his kids not too long ago. I can't remember if they were speaking about what happened in Oregon at the mall, in Wisconsin at the Sikh Temple, or at the movie theatre in Aurora, since all of these are in too recent memory. His son asked him when it would happen next. He told his kids not to worry, that they were safe; nothing like that would ever happen to them. He pondered on air, "I have to think about what to tell them now."

 Nobody wants to live in fear but these "incidents" are seemingly less and less "isolated." These evil people are mocking us all as they receive their dying wish -- to go down in infamy, one upping the last crazy white man with legally purchased weapons. I see goodness in people, even with all of our flaws, so I have a hard time blaming our culture for such evil crimes, as if we personally cultivated the seeds of hate in these men. But I do believe in enabling. Then again, where there's a will, there's a way...

I have nephews who are four and five. They are the reasons I stay on Facebook -- thousands of miles away, I stalk my sisters' and niece's pages for pictures and stories. Sometimes I print their photos out and hang them on my wall. I know, it's a tad creepy. But kids are so funny and cute and innocent. They make everything more bearable. My sister told this gem the other day: My nephew announces he wants to give Santa a present. "That is such a sweet idea, Papa! Why do you want to do that?" my sister asks him.

 Staring thoughtfully ahead he responds,  "I don't want to be on the Naughty List."

A few weeks ago he played a soccer game where, as my sister tells it, he scored two goals! One of them for his own team. He was equally happy for both. "I did it!" he shouts with glee.

Someone abruptly taking away that warm innocence with such an unspeakable act of hatred as murder is unfathomable. We are all so sad and angry.

Me: When is your mom's birthday?

Eugenio: March...3rd?

Me: That's my birthday.

Eugenio: Oh, uhhh, I think her birthday is in March too?

I have a feeling he still uses Facebook to remember my birthday.

This has been another episode of putting my husband on blast. Love,love, love.

something they built by hand

This year I was so much better about gift shopping than last year. Everyone is not getting DVDs from the Best Buy sale bin. I started early -- like August! -- and slowly selected items when I had the money thus avoiding my last minute poverty meets The Grinch. I hate the holiday crowds, all the hysteria; it's all very embarrassing to watch. BUT! I still sincerely want to give good gifts to my friends and family. I did some of my final purchases last weekend on Etsy. I've decided to shop exclusively online for mostly books and handmade gifts next year, with the same start early and slow tactic.

Over dinner on Friday I tell Eugenio about my purchases and plans, explaining all about Etsy and the handmade jewelry I bought for my niece and friend. He looks intently in my eyes, shaking his head, agreeing that it's so much nicer to give real, thoughtful gifts, to support small, pathetic businesses. The next day while shopping for wrapping paper he asks, "What are we going to get for Britney?" referring to my niece. "Do you not listen to anything I say?" I ask laughing. He looks at me with a mix of indignation and guilt, his mouth open and shoulders shrugging in that stupid way.

"I TOLD you. I bought her gift on Etsy."

"Oh, yeah....What did you get her?" he asks, a tad trepidatious.

"I TOLD YOU. I got her a handmade necklace."  Truthfully, I don't know how handmade the necklaces were. I don't imagine the seller was actually molding those delicate charms herself with a blow torch in her closet. I probably could have "hand made" those too. Let's be real.

Last night over dinner as we discussed plans for shipping our gifts in lieu of traveling with them,  he asks again, "What was it you got for Britney?" Feeling the heat from my blood and cowering from the rage in my eyes, he shouts before I can say anything, "Something they built by hand!" smiling with pride at his correct answer.

Yes. Next year you'll all be getting something-they-built-by-hand.

I know you don't poop and I'm really jealous of that, but I needed a moment to talk about it. I wrote a long post about my workplace restroom situation, where we are purposefully dissuaded from shitting without shame. Seeking therapeutic introspection, I detailed my history of public restroom shyness, which delved into my familial bowel movement history, including a funny, karmic truck stop bathroom incident, and culminated with almost telling the most embarrassing thing that's ever, ever, ever happened to me and maybe anyone -- at least I hope that was it. Please allow that I've already crossed that threshold, or I don't know how I could possibly handle living through anything more embarrassing. It happened almost ten years ago and I still shout out, "You are so stupid! You are so stupid! Ugh! I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much! You should just die," whenever that memory parades itself through my mind, mockingly. If you ever catch me saying disparaging words out loud to seemingly no one, it's just my impulsive reaction to the ghosts of moments past making an appearance in my brain. If I happen to catch you catch me talking to myself, that too will wind up haunting me for years. It's a never ending cycle of self loathing. Keeps me humble.

Where was I? Oh, yes. My shitty blog post. It was a thrilling read. I'm sorry to disappoint, but it's one for my book. Look for it in 3013 or thereabouts when my descendants dig up my unedited manuscript -- archaeologist will be digging on the Internet then, I imagine. And I suppose my descendants will be archaeologists, because that's a convenient story. And by that time humanity will have erased the degrading need to poop, so my stories will serve as triumphant tales of 'how far we've come!'

Uh, every time my air conditioner turns on, sounds of dripping and pouring rain emanate from the closet that holds the Big Air Conditioner Thing. It's very ambient. I like it. Rain is my jam, for sure. But, uh, I'm afraid that Something is Wrong.

Happy belated Thanksgiving. I've been colonized. Please send help.

I haven't  blogged much because I didn't trust myself to not share my life story circa now. But since we broke the news, I can talk about it ad nauseum!  Ready? See, what happened was....

I suppose everyone knows how babies are made. "Fruit of our loins," as you Eugenio likes to say. The weeks before I realized I was pregnant I had many conversations with my older sisters and friends in which I went on and on about how I wasn't ready for kids just yet, how I changed my mind, how I was sick of all the pressure, how I was going to run one more marathon before thinking about making a baby, how I needed to call the doctor soon for a new birth control prescription, how I was just waiting for my period to start so I can begin that new regimen. I was diagnosed with PCOS less than a year ago. It was discovered that I rarely ovulate. The egg follicle factor, a number given to indicate how many one has (I don't know the real term. That would require digging up paperwork or doing a simple google search, which I can not be bothered with right now. I'm a mom, guys, I have another human to worry about. I don't have that kind of time.) for a person my age is 3.My number is 38. I think that's a combination of years of amenorrhea due to my eating disorders plus the PCOS. The years of eating disorders really fucked up my body. I never questioned my lack of period; I knew I had done horrible things which I attributed the blame for my irregularity even after recovery.  Anyhow, post PCOS diagnosis, I went on metformin to start ovulation. Is this too much information???  It worked kinda, but not regularly. I wanted to be a normal, bleeding woman before starting birth control again, that way when we were ready to have kids, it wouldn't be another year long process to find out what dosage of metformin would work. I wasn't worried about getting pregnant, especially after all the talk about fertility treatment and in vitro the doctor just gave. Slow your roll, homie, I'm not there yet, I let him know I wasn't interested. We upped the metformin dosage. Looks like it worked. Ugh, TMI, sorry. Hey, would you like to see the ultrasounds of cute cysts on my ovaries?!

It dawned on me that I am pregnant after an attempted 18 mile run for marathon training. At mile 17 I had the most excruciating, blood curdling pain in my lower abdomen. I could not go any further despite my efforts to push through the pain. I felt like crawling. It was really frustrating;  I had never not finished a long run before. I whined like a grown baby woman. Am I getting weak? But I'm in the best shape I've ever been in. I'm running faster than ever. It's not fair! What the hell?! Then I put together all my symptoms and told Eugenio over breakfast, "I bet I'm pregnant," followed by a sigh. He rolled his eyes. A funny thing about the PCOS diagnosis was that it brought to light all the futility of our past pregnancy scares and the many, many boxes of pregnancy tests. Hundreds of dollars. Eugenio has had baby fever forever. He loves kids and wants to be a daddy so badly. It's really sweet and attractive. It was cause for a bit of relationship tension and made me feel like the jack ass for not wanting kids just yet. But I had good reasons -- I need a real career first; you need to have a job lined up post fellowship; I need to do one last selfish thing; I'll run the marathon and then we can try; my tits are going to get rul huge and I can't deal with that thought right now. His eye roll at my pregnancy statement was his response to me bringing up the baby that I was not allowing. "Yeah right, you're not pregnant. You're not allowing that to happen." his eyes said. I reiterated, "I'm pregnant" several times that week, and finally asked him one Saturday before I went to work to go buy me another pregnancy test box, like all the times before. It was waiting for me on the kitchen table when I got home from work, like all the times before. I took it, and unlike all the times before, the second blue line appeared immediately. We always thought that those three minutes were crucial, that you had to set the stick down and walk away. If you looked at it, the results were skewed. Unlike all the times before, I saw the results instantly. I could not stop laughing. Hearing my laugh, Eugenio knew the results. He was so happy. I love the elated look he had on his face. I looked in his eyes and said, "OK, we can't tell anyone." Then I turned around and texted my two older sisters and my two best friends. "Uh, ignore what I said last week..."

My attitude immediately changed. I'll never be the woman who dreamed of having kids since she was little; I'll always be flaky and conflicted and uncertain about everything ever. But of course I'm happy and excited. We made a kid by rubbing our genitals together! That blows my mind! There's a human growing inside of me! WOW!  Then there was the paranoia that I hurt the baby with all the marathon training.  It was difficult to pin down a due date using "the date of your last period" factor because I hadn't had one in over two months, which would have put me at around 10 weeks. We had one immediate ultra sound. We saw the egg sac, the tissue, a heartbeat, and were told an age of seven weeks with a June 3rd due date. We were sent on our way with an appointment in five more weeks. Five weeks is a long time to worry about everything that I had done and was doing wrong. All that crack and booze. Just kidding, I stopped drinking months ago. I didn't do too much crack, either. Just a little. I know my limits. Jesus, I'm kidding. That's our healthy 2 inch alien babe up there.

We broke the news with that picture in a text to my family. Eugenio already told his parents after our 7 week appointment, but I was too wary of miscarriage to do the same. His parents, so happy and excited, shared the news with a few, maybe a hundred people. His aunt, whom I love, and who doesn't get on Facebook much and doesn't really know how to use it properly, commented on a status thread I started about a book I was reading (Gone Girl, so, so good!). She wrote her congratulations to us on the baby, all in Spanish. I laughed and just hoped that the thread got buried and that not too many people understood anyhow. After finally sharing our secret with my family yesterday, my favorite reaction was from my aunt who replied with congratulations followed a few minutes later by, "Sorry I didn't get it. Now I know it was a joke. Gary is laughing at me big time!" I let her know that it wasn't a Thanksgiving-food-baby joke, but a real baby. I like that it was more believable that I was playing some demented food baby joke than that I was actually with child.

That marathon I trained so hard for -- I didn't tell anyone, but I planned to break 3:15 and knew I could do it -- was at 6:30 this morning. I slept in till 10am and woke up still burping the food from yesterday.  First lesson of parenthood: children ruin everything. Just kidding.

So I guess I'm a mommy blogger now?

Saw this on a 15-year-old's Tumblr:

Yolar- to live only once
yolo
yolas
yola
yolamos
yolaís
yolan


Funny kids, man...

Just found a tootsie roll at the bottom of my purse. God is good.

I haven't had or made time to write or update my bloggy blog which makes me rul sad. I started a new job and I've been sick. I've basically been sleeping on my days off. I get up, go run -- it makes me feel slightly better --  take a shower and then put my granny panties and extra extra large bed time shirt back on and sit on the couch or in bed until I fall asleep again. It's really attractive. OK, I'm off to go do all of those things on this fine Saturday. I hope to return to normal life (i.e. just add blogging to that mix) soon.

I opened a sandwich in my car last night (more on this later, so exciting) and got crumbs all over the passenger seat. Ugh,what a mess, I thought.

I'm sitting in my car in the gym parking lot waiting for my friend. I just ate some of those crumbs. OK, have a nice day.

I'm jealous of people posting and talking about the refreshing, chilly weather in their parts of the country. I love fall. I never get to experience it, but I love it. I also love soup. I love to eat soup in the fall. Dream big. It's still a hot mess in Florida, so I crank the AC down and pretend. I was craving tortilla soup yesterday, given this flood of autumn nostalgia, and at 5pm, which I normally wouldn't do, went to the store, bought the ingredients, and made it.

I'm in no position to give any advice on cooking whatsoever, but I must note that a key ingredient to the best tortilla soup is chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, especially if you love a spic.. Also, fresh lime juice as a final touch is a must. Lastly, if you really want to take it to a whole 'nother level, skip sprinkling the usual tortilla chips on top, and do as my mom always did: put a flour tortilla on the bottom, top it with cheese, then laddle your soup on top.

I'm at work and I'm hungry. This is the only time I look forward to leftovers.

I feel like a very lucky ragamuffin with a bright future lit by the screen of my new hand me down smart phone, its gps maps leading the way to places I can deposit my new monies.

I received a bit of a promotion at work.  I don't start my new position for another month, but what a relief to see it there in the future. These days are like the last month of school, sans finals (er, I hope there's no metaphorical last test of patience) knowing that the troubles are all over. The pay increase --  though, if I may pour out the half empty cup here, I will still be making significantly less than I was making at the age of 22, fresh out of college -- is an entire dollar and some change more an hour, which feels like sweet, desperate progress. Of course all those extra dollars will go to paying off student loans, but there is victory in that too.

Eugenio bought the new iphone online when it was first released -- really, he got up at 3am to order it, waking me when he returned an hour later to share his ordeal -- and it finally arrived in the mail yesterday. This means I get his old iphone. I don't even know the proper spelling; I just looked it up: iPhone. iGot it! It's a bittersweet ending for me and my antique flip phone. I found its grainy confusion to pictures charming: a 1980s picture graphic of a question mark framed by triangles and rectangles, as if to say, "What are these modern pixels I cannot decipher nor display? But check out these rad pastel shapes."  I can now accept picture messages of your lunch and what not, y'all. But, one last sad point about crossing over into modernity: I have to give up my San Antonio area code for a number with my newest area code as I switch to Eugenio's plan. I can't even say the area code; it's stupidly upsetting. I don't want to let go of San Antonio, though I haven't lived there in over four years. EDIT: Eugenio sent me a text letting me know that he activated my new/his old phone for me. (He's the best; he'll do these things for me while I'm at work.) "You'll be excited. It's a 210 area code." He's right. I am excited. And stupidly relieved.

At any rate, my old phone was more of a clock and texting device. I didn't find it lacking, though clunky and unsophisticated it was. Now that my phone is so smart, we'll see what tasks I put it up to. For one thing, I no longer have to plan my doctor visits, interviews, or random shopping trips days ahead of time so that I can print and study the map at work. This might prove equally convenient and disastrous.

This is a post I didn't intend to write until it happened.

Sometimes I get intense cravings for books or movies, like one would crave a pizza or Indian food. It's something synesthetic -- a full body and mind longing conjured up by cross wired memories and feelings painted on my mind and heart. I assume everyone experiences this, but maybe without verbalizing it; you just read the book or watch the movie again and attribute it to the words "I want to..."

Anyhow, right now I have a craving for Tuck Everlasting. I don't even remember the full plot or any specifics like character names, but I feel a warmth.  "You want to be here," it seems to say, making me want to return -- to read that book, to find that place. It's a scene of a cozy house in the woods with endless stack of pancakes, the smell of butter and maple syrup, and a kindly, plump motherly figure. I remember reading the book in class when I was younger and being so enamored with the scenes, so much so that I wanted to stay in them forever and it made me almost desolate to realise it wasn't possible; which is ironic and perfect, now that I over think about it, because it's somewhat fitting with the books' themes of life and immortality.

So I need to rent or buy Tuck Everlasting again. I sincerely hope it's not like finally getting that greasy slice of pizza you're mouth has been watering for, only to find that it has disgusting pieces of sausage with thousands of fennel seeds smothered all over it . Or like when someone excessively promotes a movie, raising your expectations to an impossible level. I really want to fully experience that cozy, maple syrup spiked feeling I keep getting. I want to run away for awhile to the Tuck house in the woods where we can read books and newspapers and eat pancakes all day. Does anyone remember reading Tuck Everlasting? I think it was required elementary school/early middle school reading. Was it like that? I'm probably romanticising it.

Edit: I just read a plot summary. Winnie was kidnapped by the Tucks. Kidnapped, ran away, potato potato.

My desire to go to that seemingly safe and comfortable yet ephemeral place probably has a more profound meaning than merely quenching a craving. It probably has something to do with my mother and a desire to take a break -- escapism, yes -- and make things easy for myself for a second. I haven't mentioned it here, but Eugenio and I will be moving soon. He'll be finished with his fellowship in July, so he's in the process of interviewing for jobs. It overwhelms me to think about uprooting and moving again, now that I'm finally settled. I finally have friends and a stable job; I finally have the I Hate This Place stick out of my ass and I'm in no hurry to put it back in while starting over again, interviewing for more jobs, trying to get my foot in the door I'm not thrilled about fully entering. Despite that last sentence, I'm trying my best to stay open minded and involved in the process and avoid my tendency to check out and let things fall where they may, my input and opinions left aside or, rather, buried inside. To keep this short and the least whiny possible, San Antonio probably isn't going to happen. So I'm going to take a break from fretting about where we will live to read my elementary school book. Then I'll get on with life, in this city or that. C'est la vie.

Chaffed breasts, black and bloody toe nails, two sweat soaked shirts, and an ice bath later, I can cross another long run off my list. I signed up for another marathon. It was the Olympics. But that buzz wore off and I'm stuck with my choice and these painful lacerations from my double bras digging against my skin for 18 miles. Those lithe, seemingly prepubescent, elite athletes make it look so glamorous. I can do that. I'mma do that. Then I waddle awkwardly down the road, knees bent inward, legs kicking outward, breasts slapping me in the face, holes forming in the top of my shoes. Nike has me on their short list for the next 'find your greatness, you sad motherfucker' commercial.

A word about my toes. I hardly flinched when I saw Honey Boo Boo's Mom's forklift toe. I have my own forklift toes, plural. My toe nails never recovered from falling off the first time; compound that with more running induced bleeding and tearing. I showed Eugenio once and he was disgusted and I haven't seen him since.

"I have a hankering to watch Raise the Red Lantern."

"When?" he asked with a hint of trepidation.

"Tonight."

"Fine, if you really want to watch it, we can. But I'm going to need a lot of booze."

With that, I look forward to a cozy, boozy night on the couch watching one of my favorite movies.

A man in his 60s, a regular who is always making me laugh, came to question if anyone had turned in his red water jug. Half way through asking, he stopped himself, muttering, "Oh never mind, no one turned that thing in. Probably walking on the streets with it right now."

"Well you should check the lost and found. You really think someone would steal a water jug?"

"Oh people down here'll steal your drawers if you sit still long enough."

He's full of hilarious nuggets like that. A few weeks ago he approached me with, "I bet you have a lot of stories." He meant from work. "You could write a book with everything that happens here, all these nuts. Hell, I'm sure I'll make an appearance in a few chapters." He's right, but I'd prefer to read his book. He's full of stories. Many of them bawdy, which I have to cut him off from telling while I'm working.

Just sitting here drinking my morning coffee and soaking up the sweat that drips from my bosom. Some people wipe the sweat from their brow, I wipe the sweat from my knees.

This is going to be a neurotic stream of conscience blog, so don't hate. My grammar will be terrible. Come to think of it, my grammar sucks even when I have a chance to fix my mistakes. I never really formally learned all the rules. I know, it's like, "Girl, you best learn you some grammar quick." It's on my to do list...

I have a fantasy for a place I'd like to attend. Perhaps this exists. If not, perhaps some day -- in my next life when I'm ambitious -- I'll open it myself. I want a Reading Room. A place to go that is quiet. Ambient background music is OK if it's not too corny. But absolutely no talking or cell phones. It's a place where we come to sit in one another's presence while not acknowledging so with words.We go, we sit, we read. Nothing is for sale except the entry to the quiet space, so as to keep the place running. Maybe, to avoid social interaction, you have to place your coins or bills in the door to get it to open. (We'll work on the details later). There are comfy couches. There are bookshelves filled with books and magazines. Perhaps complimentary coffee, but nothing too distracting. Nothing that'll leave crumbs or the possibility for someone to chew annoyingly. Loud eaters are like babies -- who needs 'em? Just kidding -- at first I wrote, "Loud eaters are the worst," and I realized how annoying that sort of hyperbole is, so I had to make it even more ridiculous. I love cute babies from afar, OK?

The goal is quiet.

I work in a library. It's never quiet. Even where its supposed to be quiet, by rule, quiet is impossible to achieve even when the rule is enforced. I understand. People have shit to do. Shit requires talking and calling and getting pissed off and yelling and seeing your friend then getting so excited you scream bloody murder and all that jazz. Other people are just naturally annoying, loud, and inconsiderate. Whatever, I don't care. I don't hate them for their degeneracy, though boil my blood they do. I accept that the ideal for quiet is impossible to come by, but I am willing to pay a price if I am guaranteed to not have anyone say a word, breath too loudly, or let her cell phone ring incessantly for an hour straight. OK?? OK??? (I am not yelling out loud, I am screaming in my head. ALL DAY LONG.)

Also, I want my Reading Room to by cute and cozy, which most libraries actually aren't because cute and cozy cost money. So we're gonna need a benefactor...Which reminds me, Eugenio is applying for jobs right now. This time next year, he'll be gettin' paper, as they say (ugh, I loathe Chris Brown). OMG! He can be our benefactor, guys! (I'm assuming you've agreed to be my business partners). Eugenio, not Chris (we're all on a first name basis). 

In case you can't tell I am really neurotic about quiet. I also love the great indoors. Stay at home? No, the point is I want to get away to sit in silence. It makes a lot of sense to me, but I can see where it comes across as an example of the hilarious backwardness of our times. Like people who spend a shit ton of money on bottled water each year when they could quite easily dip their cups in the toilet and get hydrated all the same. I get how privileged and whiny wanting a quiet sitting space sounds. I know it. But you know what, I  would also love to work in the Reading Room as its only employee.My ideal job is one in which nobody says anything ever and I can read books. Don't take me seriously, in case I need to get a job from you in the future, in which case  -- people are my favorite! Always!: )

I can't be the only one. Don't steal my Reading Room idea, k. Unless someone already stole it from me. (A quick Google search would solve this mystery, but I don't have that kind of wherewithal right now). Actually, steal it again and make it right now with really big comfy sofas and couches with the most awesome bookcase pornography incarnate ever. Thank you.

Necessity is the motherfucking invention....that's how is goes, right? I drank a lot of coffee at lunch.  I like to read at lunch while trying to catch up on some quiet time, which also doesn't happen, even when I lock myself in a "quiet study room." The guy who occupied the quiet room next to mine apparently wanted a quiet room in order to hear his voice echo throughout the walls as he yelled into his walky-talky. Oh, that was a cell phone? Why was he yelling? Whatever, I don't care. It's his prerogative. Again, I will pay a bit of cash for an honest to goodness quiet room.

I think I made my point. I'm fine. I'm not as annoyed as I feel I appear. I could go on tangents for days, but I have to get back to working. Gotta go remind people that this is a quiet room. Lolz.

A response I actually submitted to a magazine site during my lunch break at work because I just can't help myself (and I am a very lonely person):

 

Hide yo' kids. Hide yo' wife. The Holidays are coming.

Every year come October, I head for the underground bunker I built for when The Holidays come. I run 20 miles a day on a treadmill while blasting Destiny's Child.  I'm a survivor. I'm not gon give up. I'm not gon stop. I'm gon work harder. It's my holiday jam. After strength training, I lay in a tanning bed each day for 10 minutes to keep my healthy looking glow. I then inject myself with botox once a month to keep the wrinkles and expressions from all the sadness at bay. When I think of fudge or family or people smiling, I remind myself that I must be strong; only the strong survive. Once all the cookies,  gingerbread, and holiday colored m&ms are gone, I come out of the bunker, nary an uncounted, savory calorie on my person. There you have it -- my secret. How I survive. You're welcome.

Some people survive war, famine, disease, poverty....but let us prepare for the cookie apocalypse.