I signed on for a full-time position at Peel today, gentle reader, and I’m happy for it. It’s just a crazy-fun place to work in, and the hours have been whizzing by now that I’ve got non-fluorescent lighting. My workplace looks like a living room, for goodness sake, and the “mood lighting” has compelled co-worker J.C. to wander in at least twice to ask the following:
“Hey, buddy, you want to pull some tubes?”
“What?”
“You know, bongs. I think it should be bong time now.”
Bongs, cockmonkeys, and free drinks? Where do I sign u–oh, wait. Did that already.
If I play lots and lots of tennis, I’ll be as good as Andy Roddick, right? You might scoff at this conjecture, but did Roddick ever have Test Monkey No. 6 on his side? No sir, he did not.
I’ve woken up in the past week, gentle reader, wracked with mysterious pains. A painful jawbone led me to conclude that I smacked my head into the wall while sleeping, but what if the very brain cells required to figure that out died upon impact? That’s a scary thought. In the name of Blogger, why the heck did I just italicize that? Something fishy’s going on, I tell you.
I also woke up one morning with a mysterious crescent-shaped cut extending from my chest to my stomach. Where did that come from? Okay, Sharing Time is over.