"FUCK THE ORANGE KEY!"
I am officially never working in an office.
I had to come to dad’s office this morning to get to my audition in Vancouver at one, so I have to hang around the Telus building for two-and-a-half hours. No kidding, this place gives me the heebie-jeebies. Everyone’s talking smart talk (OMG), and it’s starting to creep me out. At least some people like to have fun; there’s a pool table at one end of the cafeteria, which is a plus. The minus is it’s all middle-aged naffs playing, so I won’t be having any fun. Jeez, there isn’t even a decent Internet connection around, so I’m typing this in Word and pasting it into Livejournal later. If I ever end up working in a cramped cubicle somewhere, remind me to shoot myself, thanks.
On the bright side, I am now the girlfriend of a Sex God.
On the brighter side, I’m auditioning for the Canadian College of Performing Arts today at one. Wish me luck! Wait, no, don’t wish me luck. I know all you Producer buffs know why…
“It’s bad luck to say ‘good luck’ on opening night! Once it’s said, you are dead!”
“What do I say, I beg?”
“What you say is ‘break a leg’!”
Hahahahahahaha… oh boy. You know you need to get out more when…
I feel terribly out of place here. I was in the cafeteria line, and all the naffs were staring at me. Haha, laugh on, naffypants. I’m just glad I’m still full of youthosity and in tip-top snogging condition. Which I’m sure some of you are vair vair thankful for.
Is it a bad thing that I think my dad’s a naff?
You know what would suck? Running out of things to write about, because there’s nothing else to do until noon, which is an hour-and-a-half away. Fut.
Seriously though, I don’t know what the eff to write about anymore. I’m just going to ramble on like I usually do about nothing in particular. I dislike having writer’s block vair much so.
So I was speaking on behalf of Garibaldi’s theatre and arts dept. at a district-wide presentation for all the little grade sevens and their annoying parents. I completely forgot about the whole thing until our principal, Mr. Frend (yes, his name is Mr. Frend), called me around six thirty to ask me if I needed at ride. Go me. Anyways, I rush out the door, all my dance clothes still on underneath my jeans and sweater (side note: never wear skinny jeans with ballet tights and bodysuit underneath. It isn’t the most comfortable I’ve been), and rush out to this stupid conference. Man, I thought it’d be easy, being a pro public speaker in grades six and seven, but it certainly wasn’t the case. I stood up there with my foot in my mouth for three-and-a-half minutes! It wasn’t fun. The only adjectives I could vomit up were “awesome” and “amazing.” I think I used the word “chill” at one point in my speech. Thoroughly embarrassing. At the end I remember saying, “And I’m totally rambling now, so…” Wow, I am the biggest dork I know. Apart from Drew, but that’s the only exception XD. Next time the principal asks me to make the school look good, I am saying no, and not just for my well-being, but for the reputation of the school. Nobody wants their kids going to a meth and gang-fighting school anyways!
Right. It is now… 10:34. That last paragraph took me five minutes to write. What the hell am I supposed to do for the next five minutes that drag by?! As soon as I get my license back, I am so taking hostage of the truck.
Oh yeah, by the way, I got my license suspended for three months. Ahahahahaha… ha?
It was because of that speeding ticket I got about a zillion years ago. I thought maybe the three hundred some-odd dollar fine would have been punishment enough, but nooo. After I put so much effort into getting dad to write a letter pleading for my license (“I’ll be a good girl, I swear I’ll never do it again! I need my license to feed my starving Guatemalan baby!” or something ridiculous like that), the DMV sort of shrugs, and goes, “Well, it’s a good story, but… I don’t really care. To tell you the truth, I didn’t actually even read it all. Yeah, there was really no point in writing a letter, we just like to plant false hope into the hearts of innocent teenage girls. It’s more fun that way! Oh, and we’re also making you pay $130.00 to get it back afterwards. I love my job.”
I hate the DMV. And all policemen in Maple Ridge.
PS. GET ME OUT OF THIS BUILDING! NEED… AIR…
PPS. *passes out*
I had to come to dad’s office this morning to get to my audition in Vancouver at one, so I have to hang around the Telus building for two-and-a-half hours. No kidding, this place gives me the heebie-jeebies. Everyone’s talking smart talk (OMG), and it’s starting to creep me out. At least some people like to have fun; there’s a pool table at one end of the cafeteria, which is a plus. The minus is it’s all middle-aged naffs playing, so I won’t be having any fun. Jeez, there isn’t even a decent Internet connection around, so I’m typing this in Word and pasting it into Livejournal later. If I ever end up working in a cramped cubicle somewhere, remind me to shoot myself, thanks.
On the bright side, I am now the girlfriend of a Sex God.
On the brighter side, I’m auditioning for the Canadian College of Performing Arts today at one. Wish me luck! Wait, no, don’t wish me luck. I know all you Producer buffs know why…
“It’s bad luck to say ‘good luck’ on opening night! Once it’s said, you are dead!”
“What do I say, I beg?”
“What you say is ‘break a leg’!”
Hahahahahahaha… oh boy. You know you need to get out more when…
I feel terribly out of place here. I was in the cafeteria line, and all the naffs were staring at me. Haha, laugh on, naffypants. I’m just glad I’m still full of youthosity and in tip-top snogging condition. Which I’m sure some of you are vair vair thankful for.
Is it a bad thing that I think my dad’s a naff?
You know what would suck? Running out of things to write about, because there’s nothing else to do until noon, which is an hour-and-a-half away. Fut.
Seriously though, I don’t know what the eff to write about anymore. I’m just going to ramble on like I usually do about nothing in particular. I dislike having writer’s block vair much so.
So I was speaking on behalf of Garibaldi’s theatre and arts dept. at a district-wide presentation for all the little grade sevens and their annoying parents. I completely forgot about the whole thing until our principal, Mr. Frend (yes, his name is Mr. Frend), called me around six thirty to ask me if I needed at ride. Go me. Anyways, I rush out the door, all my dance clothes still on underneath my jeans and sweater (side note: never wear skinny jeans with ballet tights and bodysuit underneath. It isn’t the most comfortable I’ve been), and rush out to this stupid conference. Man, I thought it’d be easy, being a pro public speaker in grades six and seven, but it certainly wasn’t the case. I stood up there with my foot in my mouth for three-and-a-half minutes! It wasn’t fun. The only adjectives I could vomit up were “awesome” and “amazing.” I think I used the word “chill” at one point in my speech. Thoroughly embarrassing. At the end I remember saying, “And I’m totally rambling now, so…” Wow, I am the biggest dork I know. Apart from Drew, but that’s the only exception XD. Next time the principal asks me to make the school look good, I am saying no, and not just for my well-being, but for the reputation of the school. Nobody wants their kids going to a meth and gang-fighting school anyways!
Right. It is now… 10:34. That last paragraph took me five minutes to write. What the hell am I supposed to do for the next five minutes that drag by?! As soon as I get my license back, I am so taking hostage of the truck.
Oh yeah, by the way, I got my license suspended for three months. Ahahahahaha… ha?
It was because of that speeding ticket I got about a zillion years ago. I thought maybe the three hundred some-odd dollar fine would have been punishment enough, but nooo. After I put so much effort into getting dad to write a letter pleading for my license (“I’ll be a good girl, I swear I’ll never do it again! I need my license to feed my starving Guatemalan baby!” or something ridiculous like that), the DMV sort of shrugs, and goes, “Well, it’s a good story, but… I don’t really care. To tell you the truth, I didn’t actually even read it all. Yeah, there was really no point in writing a letter, we just like to plant false hope into the hearts of innocent teenage girls. It’s more fun that way! Oh, and we’re also making you pay $130.00 to get it back afterwards. I love my job.”
I hate the DMV. And all policemen in Maple Ridge.
PS. GET ME OUT OF THIS BUILDING! NEED… AIR…
PPS. *passes out*