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10.01.2005

 
I am tired of being at work. It's a Saturday and it's pleasant outside and I'm all pouty like a 13 year-old girl on her birthday. I hate this job.

Look at me breaking all the rules of blogging. Never blog about work because you will get into trouble. Bring it. I'm sure I'd rather be rolling around in a pile of leaves somewhere or building a bonfire or drinking 40's on the curb in front of the house with my gloves on. So all you're threatening me with is freedom. I don't have a family, or many bills to pay, and I can live for upwards of 4 months on peanut butter sandwiches and kool-aid. Just you try and intimidate me, working world. You'll soon find that I am the Rambo of the office. You can't scare me and you can't stop me. With nothing to lose all I can do is win.

I am going to eat so much B-B-Q this fall. You have no idea.

I'm gearing up for more apple cider, and the smell of burning leaves, and foggy mornings where the moisture hugs tight to your skin, and hats and jackets, and more stars, and a singing in the world that shakes me down to my core and just you fucking wait, planet Earth, because I am comin out swingin. In the Fall, all bets are off.

The World utters a collective "oh shit" under it's breath.

You goddamn right.

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