WANTED: One Red-Headed Packing Slave
The moving truck arrives in six days and I've barely touched a single box. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Despite my laziness and obvious stress, I have been blessed with many rad dreams of sucking face with Ron Weasley. OH RON. WON'T YOU HELP ME PACK? I can think of fewer things better than watching a sweaty Ron Weasley bitch and moan as he packs my belongings into cardboard boxes. 'Why do you even fucking own this?' I can hear him whine, struggling with my cardboard Harry Potter cut-outs. I would shrug my shoulders, gesture for him to continue, and go back to eating vegetable samosas and drinking beer.
'Merlin, have I earned one yet?' he'd ask in an irritated voice, nodding at the bottle.
'I guess so.' I would sigh heavily. Before he looked too hopeful I'd add, 'finish with that pile of out-dated calendars first. And take off your shirt ... Oh my god, you stinky bastard, put it back on! ... Take it off.'
There's a job opening in the Post Office at the drug store where I work. I'd be on that like stink on shit if I wasn't already in the cosmetics department - My boss continually tells me how much she enjoys having me around, and how glad she is I took the job. It'd break her heart if I left, which sort of sucks, as I can think of many jobs I'd rather do than work a cosmetics counter with as little product knowledge as I have. I like being really good at a job right off the bat. I was already offered a position at a sewing machine store in the mall, as well as a full-time position at the Internet cafe. Can't I work everywhere? I've recommended my brother for the Post Office job. He's an ace candidate for that sort of thing. They just came out with a new series of QEII stamps. This time she's in blue! BE STILL MY HEART! No, really. I love her.
The playlist at Claire's is impregnated with Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus songs. Every other song seems to be from this chick, and each one drives me mental. Every so often I'll find myself tolerating one better than others. I'm not suggesting I love this music, only that it isn't killing me, and I sort of enjoy listening to it when it comes on over the speakers. 'Rockstar' is OK for the time being:
It picks up at 00:12. I'm certain I'll get sick of it in a few days.
Tomorrow I work at 1:00. I'm going to go to bed now and be up early enough to fill every box I have. For real this time. I'm serious. Maybe. Do I even have a choice? No, I don't. Damn it. My poor mother would flip her shit if she knew how behind I was. Please don't inform her.
'Merlin, have I earned one yet?' he'd ask in an irritated voice, nodding at the bottle.
'I guess so.' I would sigh heavily. Before he looked too hopeful I'd add, 'finish with that pile of out-dated calendars first. And take off your shirt ... Oh my god, you stinky bastard, put it back on! ... Take it off.'
There's a job opening in the Post Office at the drug store where I work. I'd be on that like stink on shit if I wasn't already in the cosmetics department - My boss continually tells me how much she enjoys having me around, and how glad she is I took the job. It'd break her heart if I left, which sort of sucks, as I can think of many jobs I'd rather do than work a cosmetics counter with as little product knowledge as I have. I like being really good at a job right off the bat. I was already offered a position at a sewing machine store in the mall, as well as a full-time position at the Internet cafe. Can't I work everywhere? I've recommended my brother for the Post Office job. He's an ace candidate for that sort of thing. They just came out with a new series of QEII stamps. This time she's in blue! BE STILL MY HEART! No, really. I love her.
The playlist at Claire's is impregnated with Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus songs. Every other song seems to be from this chick, and each one drives me mental. Every so often I'll find myself tolerating one better than others. I'm not suggesting I love this music, only that it isn't killing me, and I sort of enjoy listening to it when it comes on over the speakers. 'Rockstar' is OK for the time being:
It picks up at 00:12. I'm certain I'll get sick of it in a few days.
Tomorrow I work at 1:00. I'm going to go to bed now and be up early enough to fill every box I have. For real this time. I'm serious. Maybe. Do I even have a choice? No, I don't. Damn it. My poor mother would flip her shit if she knew how behind I was. Please don't inform her.