Dr. Pepper Tastes Like Aqua Net: Why I like not having too much responsibility (originally posted March 27, 2006)

This morning, I woke up hung over. And not only that, I woke up late. I jumped out of bed at the cusp of sleeping in and oversleeping. It was 7:15 a.m., and I needed to be uptown by 8:30. I brushed my teeth as the shower heated up, and I frantically ran around my apartment trying to get things in order. All the while, I felt as if I was going to throw up. The room was spinning and I was freaking out. I didn't want to be late when I had only been at my new job for a week.

After setting the new world record for vomitting AND shampooing my hair at the same time, I clocked the rest of my morning ritual in under 15 minutes flat. I typically don't like to rush, so I was amazed at just how slow I must be in the morning if I typically wake up at 6:15 a.m. and don't leave my apartment until 7:45 a.m. Apparently I can stretch the task of eating a small container of yogurt into a 15 minute ordeal.

After cleaning up what was left of the half eaten bagel and goat cheese I ate the night before in a drunken haze, I headed out the door, telling myself that once I got some fresh air, I'd feel better. I learned an important truth this morning: I am, in fact, retarded. To think that New York City air is going to make you feel better is something that only lends itself to the mentally challenged, and I, my friends, am apparently running on half a brain most of the time.

Getting on the F train was the closest thing to nailing my own coffin that I've ever experienced. People crowded around me, and all the while I thought "Oh god. I hope that man doesn't like his suit too much because I can give no guarantees about my ability to projectile vomit" and "please little kid step away from me. I don't want to yack on your head. I imagine bile and goat's cheese is impossible to get out of corn rows."

The V train was a bit better, as I was able to get a seat, and the train was relatively empty. The V train has this magic ability to always remain half empty despite the fact that it runs a very central route through the city. My seat was right by the door, so I was lucky enough to get a nice breeze every time the doors opened. Also, a man who resembled Superman sat across from me, and I believe that the 20 minutes of incessant staring at his chest to see if I could see his trademark costume did a fine job of creeping him out. His chest was also acting as a point of reference as to stop the spinning in my head. And oddly enough, I think being on the subway whilst experiencing the hung over spins is the closest thing to LSD I'll ever experience. If only Led Zeppelin had been playing in the background, the scene would have been complete.

Luckily, the train was moving fast, so I made it to work with time to spare. I immediately raided the pantry and learned that Doritos and doughnuts with pink frosting and sprinkles cure any sort of beer-induced headache. Also, Dr. Pepper tastes like Aqua Net if you drink it with Doritos. But the most important part is that I'm getting paid to do all this. My boss asked me if I was feeling okay, and of course I lied and said "Never been better." She replied with "I'm so hungover right now. God, I envy your job. No responsibility except to answer the phone and look cute." And she's right. I look like a fucking angel while eating a pink donut, and the FedEx guy told me I had a cute white girl giggle. Then he winked at me, so I'm guessing that was a compliment. The mailman even said that he liked my hair, and that he reminded him of the girlfriend he had when he was 22, because apparently I look "mod." I've noted this and plan on wearing shift dressed and big earrings for the forseeable future.

Envious? Well, you shouldn't be. Anyone can achieve this level of fame. All it takes is a severe lack of direction, fear of adult responsibility, an office that occasionally buys donuts and stocks their pantries with good snacks. Also, if you can look adorable while hungover, you're on the fast track for success.

In China, the phrase "temporary employee" means "retard." (originally posted on April 28, 2006)

So it's 4:35 p.m. on Friday. My boss is leaving early for her daughter's birthday and I have nothing to do. The "nothing to do" part is actually what I do all day. It's my life at work. It's the life of a temp.

People look down on temps, but it's the closest thing to not working that will still pay you. Basically, if you are carrying the title of "temporary employee" you are are also wearing a make believe badge that says "possibly retarded." People don't trust you do to real work, so you spend your days piddling around the Internet. It's a sweet deal, but you don't get health insurance, which I'm certain sis ome sort of conspiracy since I will most likely develop wrist problems from chatting with my friends on MSN Messenger all day.

Since temping, I've developed a multiple personality where I like to pretend to be British. I say "cunt," "twat," "bint," and "slag" like a pro, and it keeps me quite entertained whilst at work.

Another thing I've learned/developed is an uncanny ability to look at only four websites a day. I feel that all of my personal interests are captured in these four sites, thus I do require any more stimulation from the Internet.

I also eat a lot of peanuts now, but that's only because they stock them in the employee kitchen. I like peanuts, so this is a good thing.

I've also learned the difference between an "inbox" and an "outbox" in regards to where mail goes. I already knew the difference, but my boss felt it neccesary to explain this to me. I felt enlightened in the same way you feel after you see someone try to light a fart on fire for the first time and you think "Man. I just learned something."

My boss has now exited the building, and I'm still sitting here writing this entry. I'm going to pack up a few packages of peanuts for the weekend and I'm out of here.