I do not like the new posting interface. This little half-page nonsense irritates me.

Anyway, on a less cranky note, I’m sore from neck to ankles. A local business is supplying me with peanut shells, for compost and mulch, but this means I have to carry the box from their place to my carpool pick up point. It’s not far and the box isn’t heavy, but it’s awkward. Worth it, though, for the wormilicious peanut shells.

I’m waiting for poop news, again. Contact numero tres: will she come through with composted manure, or no? Am I, literally, shit out of luck? I am so happy to be able to ask that question, though, I can’t even tell you. Am I SOL? Am I? Wheeeeee! If I were Animal–you know, the feathery red Muppet–I would yell loudly, shake, and run off-stage at this point, but I’m at work, where we are all very calm and sedate, so no.

Work sucks the fun out of everything. Even fun things, like miniature golf, are less fun when you have to do it with coworkers. It still doesn’t suck, but I’d rather miniature golf with kids or slightly tipsy hipsters, or really, anyone but my boss, etc. Tipper Gore, even, and I think she’s not very fun at all. Maybe she’s fun in person, but I remember her from the whole Parental Advisory hoo-haw around rap music CDs, and I’m still a little angry about it.

I don’t hold grudges against people I actually know. That would take way too much energy, and I’m a busy person with a short attention span. I reserve my animus for public figures, institutions, and corporate entities, which I suppose are now people, whatever, something that also pisses me off, mightily. People work for corporations, but that does not make corporations people, right? Just like I carpool, but that neither makes the car a person, nor me a car.

What is the point of this post? My email is hung up, that’s all, so while I wait for it to fix itself, I’m distracting myself with the internet. Hellooooo, internet, whattup?


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