2003-08-27

I whiled away the day yesterday in hyperproductive slothfulness. I successfully applied for my health care card (“No, sir, there aren’t any organs I’d be unwilling to donate – I can’t imagine I’ll have much use for any of them after I’m dead”), scrubbed the finish off my apartment, read approximately eight thousand pages of delectable Victorian repressed-anguish pontification, exercised, and, to cap off the day, discovered the formula for cold fusion. Yes, you heard me – EXERCISED! I’m on the ball like a fucking circus elephant, yo.

The mental respite was much needed, as I’ll have to keep my wits about me this afternoon: the office manager has decided to “reward” the support staff (and whom exactly do I support, I ask you? NOBODY! I support enforced euthanasia!) for our hard work this summer by inviting us all to a pot luck barbeque at her house, located in the profoundest suburbs of Gatineau. Shudder. With “rewards” like that, who needs electroshock therapy? I’ve already got a hard-won reputation as the office grinch due to my “Pssht! Whatever” attitude towards any work-related social function, but they seem to be intent on my going – the office manager knows I’m vegan, although she doesn’t apparently have a fucking clue what that is, and she asked me if I can eat corn on the cob. (“Uh, yeah,” I said, “as long as it’s not made out of MEAT.”) I’m going to have to do some super-crafty weaseling to get out of this teeth-grinding fun-fest, but have faith – get out of it I will, even if I have to fake a grand mal seizure. Lying twitching on the ground and swallowing my own tongue would be significantly less disagreeable than weathering poolside office gossip in fucking GATINEAU, that’s for sure.