1308. home. all fish present and accounted for. all kitties present and accounted for. me. i'm home. i'm present and accounted for. and i'm pooped. i worked today, yay me. i decided to go, i didn't have anything better to do and i guess dollars are good.
so i pulled myself away from the 12-hour 'america's next top model' marathon and took my dumb ass to work. have you ever watched that show? sadly for me, it's kind of addicting. because that's like three hours of my life i'll never get back. i'm ashamed to admit it. it's kind of like talking about watching 'mean girls'. the first time i talked about that i just wanted to vomit, it was so embarrassing.
my throat is sore. who knew when you googled for sore throat you'd get this cute lil' bugger (available for purchase for just 5.99£)? apparently he is a giant microbe of streptococcus bacteria which causes 15 percent of sore throats. i think he looks more like a liver or a kidney, which i think prolly has very little to do with sore throats, but sounds more interesting, i think. 'superjanel, you don't sound very good? what's wrong? do you have a sore throat?' 'why yes, yes i do. i think my kidney is inflamed from all the screaming i did at the chili peppers concert last night...' hehehe...
i work with a giant group of idiot mongoloids. each and every one of them, i swear. i'm not saying that our agents in dsm were rocket scientists, by any means, but come on. when the guy working ops has to ask what 'dcn' means and how it affects him, i think we've got some issues. there were five of us tonight: me, the tall emo kid with the speech impediment, the short bald kid that makes up his own language, the chubby beaner with one ball, and the sweet but retarded southern chica who will believe anything you tell her, kid you not. the entertainment for the evening, between flights, obviously, was a spread of old naked women in oprah magazine and an ultimate fighting thing on tv. good times.
as long as we're on the topic, let's talk about oprah magazine. excuse me. the oprah magazine. do you realize that for the last seven years, she's been on like every cover of every issue of her own damn magazine? how fucking conceited is that? i mean, it's already got her name on it. don't we already know that it's oprah? do we really need to see it? and then you get inside, and like every other ad is for oprah this and oprah that. and the stories, like they're all about oprah. and then you get to read about what's on the fucking oprah show. OMFG. get over it. get over yourself. yes, you're rich. and yes, you're important and you've done important things for women and for blacks and for the impoverished and blah, blah, blah... but come on. i'm sick to death of oprah and her ever changing hair and waist size and hearing how amazing she is. and while i hate dr. phil, i hate even more hearing like how she discovered dr. phil.
and in this month's oprah, this one pictured right here to the left, there are pictures of old lady hoohaa. and you know, i'm generally not offended by hoohaa. but i was just all flipping through the pages, and i'm already pissed off because there was nothing else to read and i have to read the oprah magazine and my plane is delayed (because that's what dcn means, motherfuckers, it means i have to stay late... grr) and i'm just flipping away and suddenly i'm confronted with like full frontal old lady hoohaa nakedness. AAAACKK! i about spit my soda all over it. i was not okay. oprah, if you're reading this, and you know you are, i was not okay with the old lady hoohaa. nor was i okay with the old lady and the pancake boobs. i know i'm going to get old. i don't need to see what it's going to look like. ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew... EW. not impressed, oprah, not impressed.
so i think i'm going to bed now. i'm tired. and sort of cranky. i need some nyquil or something. i need a beer. how many days until lent is over?