*Crystalline* Fing A Snow Fer.
*chuckles* Ah, yes. I own the last entry of 2006. But it's creeping past the final hour, so I'd better get with the typing. I think lj entries have become time-accurate, meaning that if I go back for an edit, it'll reflect that with an updated time. So let me really begin by pointing a finger at the last day of 2006 and calling it suckass.
I worked this weekend and in those two days experienced both kinds of shift-agony: Saturday was very long and very busy, with demanding patrons, sticky books, and at its end, I was leaking spinal fluid through the soles of my feet.
Today, Sunday, the last day of 2006, I again woke up far earlier than my reality dictates and saw that the broadcasted rain had mutated into evil. First I went for my pump-action shotgun, thinking that at least I could take out a few hundred before blowing myself up along with a couple thousand more. However, the nefarious snowflakes rejected a direct attack, instead rushing the ground with icy, slippery intent.
I got ready for work, even more pissed off at having to ignore my sandals for shoes. It took me 30 minutes to scrape ice and snow off my car, 20 minutes to back out of the driveway, drive down the street, turn around, pull back in my driveway to scrape off the new snow that flew and froze on the windshield. Then 35 minutes to actually drive to work on the snowfucked roads.
So began the second longest shift of my life. In "four hours," only seven insane people came in to check out a Baby Mozart, some Nora Roberts, a Michael Crichton, five Sweet Valley Twins, and a how-to book on building porches. Considering that we might have persuaded our boss to close early if we had only two or three patrons, this building porches person seriously ignited my wrath. What? You're not e-recting a porch anytime soon, buddy. Congratulations, you're part of the how-to erect my middle finger.
Mostly I read a volume of Penny Arcade and ate salted white popcorn, trying not to feel the sopping wet pant legs clinging to my skin. But come five o'clock it was at last time to go home. After scraping, wiping, and body-slamming the other white evil off our cars. Thankfully the return drive didn't feature any swerving, except for at one stoplight, where I made a slug's turn and still fishtailed onto the opposite median.
But now I'm going to pull the blinds and fit myself into denial. I'm giddy over Girl Genius. The comic is, well, brilliant (synonym), but it will also enrapture me until I can afford a time card for my braaaaand-new World of Warcraftness. Hoyeah, get mais game on.
My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Her Most Serene Highness Lady Crystal the Imposing of Fritterton on the Marshes
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title
Happy new year and all that. n.n
I worked this weekend and in those two days experienced both kinds of shift-agony: Saturday was very long and very busy, with demanding patrons, sticky books, and at its end, I was leaking spinal fluid through the soles of my feet.
Today, Sunday, the last day of 2006, I again woke up far earlier than my reality dictates and saw that the broadcasted rain had mutated into evil. First I went for my pump-action shotgun, thinking that at least I could take out a few hundred before blowing myself up along with a couple thousand more. However, the nefarious snowflakes rejected a direct attack, instead rushing the ground with icy, slippery intent.
I got ready for work, even more pissed off at having to ignore my sandals for shoes. It took me 30 minutes to scrape ice and snow off my car, 20 minutes to back out of the driveway, drive down the street, turn around, pull back in my driveway to scrape off the new snow that flew and froze on the windshield. Then 35 minutes to actually drive to work on the snowfucked roads.
So began the second longest shift of my life. In "four hours," only seven insane people came in to check out a Baby Mozart, some Nora Roberts, a Michael Crichton, five Sweet Valley Twins, and a how-to book on building porches. Considering that we might have persuaded our boss to close early if we had only two or three patrons, this building porches person seriously ignited my wrath. What? You're not e-recting a porch anytime soon, buddy. Congratulations, you're part of the how-to erect my middle finger.
Mostly I read a volume of Penny Arcade and ate salted white popcorn, trying not to feel the sopping wet pant legs clinging to my skin. But come five o'clock it was at last time to go home. After scraping, wiping, and body-slamming the other white evil off our cars. Thankfully the return drive didn't feature any swerving, except for at one stoplight, where I made a slug's turn and still fishtailed onto the opposite median.
But now I'm going to pull the blinds and fit myself into denial. I'm giddy over Girl Genius. The comic is, well, brilliant (synonym), but it will also enrapture me until I can afford a time card for my braaaaand-new World of Warcraftness. Hoyeah, get mais game on.
My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Her Most Serene Highness Lady Crystal the Imposing of Fritterton on the Marshes
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title
Happy new year and all that. n.n