Fleekin Floygn

I just got yelled at whilst going down an escalator by a homeless schizophrenic ascending adjacent me. For sneezing. I replied that I absolutely adored his happy kitties sweatshirt. This, however, did not placate him.

I started in my new position today, which, if my internet history is any indication, is shaping up to be much like my old position, minus superfluous accesories such as pens or a trash can. It is nice to know that in these troubled times, a cash-strapped government can be fiscally responsible in the rationing of writing utensils and waste recepticles. Consequently, I have decided to adopt my own trash can in the form of my colleague's cubicle. Sorry, Marjorie. Also, my new colleague (32, three kids, nuff said.) asked me about my fly walking style today, with a an apologetic preramble about PC work boundaries that lasted roughly the length of a Schoolhouse Rock episode. Finally, I was just like, "Bitch, I'm gimpy! Deal wit it!" then smiled sweetly and hobbled away.


I'm not sure what's going on with YP, though I'm allowing me to become more convinced that it has little to do with me. He says he's just been feeling out of it for the past week and a half as a result of switching to college-friendly sleep times, i.e. not going to bed at 4am. While this makes sense, I have never understood giving up social/sexy opportunities due to sleepiness. The fact that I would under no circumstance opt to sleep alone given the choice seems to be a sentiment shared only myself while his ability to treat this like what it is - two guys who've known each other a month and have no responsability one another - is infuriating in its rationality. I hope he dies in a fire. No, I hope he sleeps over one more time and then dies in a fire. Minus the fire. Okay, and the one more time. We're currently having a texting war over who is most closely resembles the missing link. I need to have sex so bad.