I’m posting in the middle of the day today so try not to freak out.

So I get to work today and The Lunchist (remember The Lunchist from the beginning of December when somebody squished her sandwich and she freaked out and I wrote a blog post that was supposed to be funny but then the blog turned into a lynch mob full of people’s latent office aggressions and we threatened to set poor Lunchist on fire and I had to stop the angry pitchfork wielding mob because Lunchist is actually my friend and I was only kidding? Say “friend” just like Ricki’s mom from Better Off Dead because that’s how I’m saying it in my head. Frrriend. Frrriend.) was standing in the breakroom, agog, because somebody threw her lunch, uneaten, in the trashcan. This is very bad because a short time ago, somebody ATE The Lunchist’s sandwich and she found the baggie with little turkey and lettuce remnants in the trash.

The only thing we can figure is that somebody wants to kill The Lunchist and is sending her a very passive aggressive message by destroying her innocent little diet-friendly sandwiches. Passive aggressive, that is, until the day The Lunchist turns up dead! because some crazed vigilante librarian has it out for her.

OR!

This person has something against those Arnold Sandwich Thins things and this is just a random act of sandwich violence against the Arnold things and it has nothing to do with The Lunchist at all.

At this point, we just don’t know. There’s no clear evidence on anything just yet.

Dun-dun-dunnnn.

I have to go now because we are very busy cross-referencing schedules and break times to try and figure out who this crazy lunatic must be. It’s always the normal people you have to worry about and the problem with this place is that they’re ALL normal people!

Huhuhuhuhu. They give me the willies.

So I think we’re going to need to get Columbo on this ASAP. If anyone has Peter Falk’s phone number could you please give him the 411 and then send him over here right away? We’re also going to need the whole forensics team to come down with him.

OMG, and BONES! Get BONES over here! And make sure Boreanaz is with her.

Huhuhuhuhu. He gives me the willies, too.

IN MY PANTS!

Welcome to my Anxiety Disorder. Pull up a chair and put 911 on speed dial.

I tried Turbo Jamming it the other day.

It wasn’t pretty, even though I’ve Turbo Jammed it with The Bronchieties a couple of times already.

About half way through the hour, I got out of breath. Now, any normal person would be like “well, duh! You’ve been jumping and punching and kicking for 30 minutes. You should be out of breath, fucktard!” But not me, Queefies. My anxiety over having The Bronchieties made me think I was having some kind of massive lung attack and I thought I was going to die and I worked myself up into such a tizzy that I had a full blown panic attack. It was the first one in about 6 years.

But I kept on Turbo Jamming anyway, all the while I was certain that I was dying of a lung attack and my interior monologue went a little something like this:
What if I pass out? Who is going to take care of Homeslice and Girlfriend? Will Girlfriend think to call 911? Will she remember to do that? Maybe I should go over that with her right now. Or should I run across the street and give them to Michele? No. I can’t leave the house looking like this! I have to wash my hair. I look dirty and I’m all sweaty from the heart attack I’m having. I don’t want to go in the ambulance with dirty hair. I have to find a way to wash my hair before I pass out, but what if I pass out in the shower and drown in the water? Oh my god ohmygodohmygooooodddd!

And so it went until I finally decided that looking good when dying was more important than getting my cardio in before slipping into a lung attack coma and so I took a shower and did my breathing exercises and felt better even though Homeslice sat on the floor and screamed her assicals off the entire time and the phone kept ringing and Girlfriend had locked herself in a room with Alice (which is extremely bad news if Girlfriend wants to keep her face, fyi) But I’ve been in that odd twilight phase you get after an attack like that and it kinda sucks.

I think the steroid nasal spray they gave me for my Sinusitisis fucked me up a little bit. I stopped taking it a couple of days ago, and I’ve felt totally weird since. The worst part is that I think it messed with Homeslice, too. I told that lady doctor I was nursing! GAH! INCOMPETENCE!

Take her away!

The story that’s not actually a story except it TOTALLY is one! But not in the sense that you think I said it is. Only it’s completely true mostly. I’ve even confused myself at this point.

On Tuesday morning at around 5-ish, Mister followed me into the bathroom while reading his blackberry, and he’s all “you wanna hear something totally fucked up?” So I’m all “of course!” because I love fucked up stories, even at 5 am when I have to pee. Who doesn’t? And he proceeds to tell me that he saw a facebook update from a friend of his named…we’ll call her Monica, who expressed some trepidation about trying something new, and one of the comments was from a guy named…we’ll call him…Playa. And Playa said to Monica that she’ll do fine and not to worry and Mister recognized Playa’s picture as one of our neighbors (who we all always sensed was a little bit of a douche but never had any proof) and sent Monica a message asking her how she knows Playa.

Well.

Monica was all “oh, I dated Playa for a month about half a year ago. He’s a nice guy.”

And so the reason why this is a story at all is because Playa happens to be married with two little ones and about a half a year ago, Playa’s wife was miserably, hugely pregnant with Homeslice’s little friend, HomegirlAcrosstheWay.

YES.

And so Mister is all “Oh SNAP! I see you, Playa!”

To make it a little worse for Playa’s poor wife, who is a pretty nice person, Monica is a Hottie McHotterson and Playa’s poor wife was so uncomfortably pregnant at the time (or she had just given birth) when this all took place it just makes it worse somehow. Douche-ier or whatever.

So now we know something very naugh-tee about one of our neighbors and it gets kinda good for me and Jesus is totally hooking my shit up because he always has a new BMW (license plate says “NO EGO” I know, right? My. ass.) and what does Crissy want more than anything in the whole wide history of forever and a day?

That’s RIGHT!

And so I think I might ask to borrow it sometime because YES.

PS: It’s a TWM day, so go check it out: My Brand Of Feminism Includes Chivalry

MOTHERFUCKER! There. That’s better.

Have you guys ever had the urge to just stand up at your desk and just shout “MOTHERFUCKER!” for no reason at all other than to just do it?  Maybe because it would feel kind of good to just let the crazy out a little bit?

This is why I’m just a little bit jealous of people with Tourette’s Syndrome.  They get to just walk down the street and sneer something like “PISSFACE!” at somebody and there isn’t shit anyone can do about it.

Lucky bastards. 

It must feel good sometimes to just come out with it, you know. I’m sure having Tourette’s Syndrome pretty much sucks ass 90% of the time, but that 10% when it doesn’t must be pretty freaking sweet.

I don’t know where I’ve been lately.  I was sick and now I’m a little better even though I’ms till coughing up lung chewies and can’t taste or smell anything yet.

My brain is just tired still.

I’ve got some juicy, juicy, JUICY gossip but I can’t tell you guys about it and that’s frustrating me a little bit. I’ll probably tell you about it tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to twist it enough so you get the story without getting the story so I don’t get in trouble and get banned from my neighborhood. Not that getting banned from my neighborhood would necessarily be a bad thing, but if I can’t get to my house, I can’t write this blog so you know.

You don’t want that to happen. Probably.

Anyhoodles, I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you A story without telling you THE story.

Or something like that.

I’m confused. My head hurts.