I came to talk about the Inventory Blues, but Inventory fucking rules.

Maybe I'm an asshole -
Okay. I know I'm an ass. I voluntarily cut 45 minutes of lunch after I realizing that:

1) there was a heck of a lot of work to be done. Inventory, inventory, INVENTORY! And - Unpaid work-time is the shizznit when:
2) my lunch lady friends are intent on discussing crazy cute kitten behavior, and crazy hot Will Smith.

Are you supposed to feign interest for the benefit of fitting in at work? I've never quite understood. Laughing along would mean not being true to yourself, but since the self is defined within the framework of a meaningful social network you have to obey certain social rules eh? Tricky that.

But I will be fucked HARD and LONG and IN the NOSTRIL before I let my voice crescendo ten fucking decibels while talking about the ripple of random man muscle or the whisker of someone else's bag of cat-hell.

Cats are like babies in that way. You're probably the only one who's ever going to see that your kid has more potential than that of winning the "Mare of the Year, Wisconsin" - as an entrant, not as person with actual horse.

You're probably also the only one who thinks that that way your cat looks at you when you do that thing and oh god you-jes-gotta-be-there is a phenomenon where you don't gotta be there, because obviously your stunning descriptive skills and your Jesuscat transcend the need for actual first-person witnessing of these Kodiac moments.

Jesuscat. Heh heh.



You can take your Jesuscat and shove it up your Midday-mass.

It's not that I didn't want to contribute. I would have loved to have the discussion of Will Smith's "THE LEGEND" (not to be confused with "I AM Legend"), (actual movie) spin off into maybe - Scientology, or the novel the film is loosely based on: I do not find these topics to far-fetched. Or, maybe I'd have joined in if the cat-chat had evolved into...well. Why not the mechanics of giving head. Oh nonono - there's an OBVIOUS connection. And if there isn't, there should be. Because I'd rather be choking on cock than be lapping up this kind of shit.

I'm not a conversation fascist. I'm not same-sex hater. I love women passionately, just not all the ones I work with. Nor all of the men. I'm an equal-opportunity misanthropist, and you better keep your lunch-box away from me unless you're willing to talk grown-up.

Or maybe I AM a conversation-fascist. A stupid everything-sort of fascist. A scared-of-having-someone-else-or-their-thoughts-matter sort of fascist. Maybe.

I'm generally scared of relationships- fine, but where does one draw lines? How to divide 'plain old honest disinterest in the mundane' and 'fear of rejection'? Maybe I don't reeeaally hate your cat. Or that way that you raise your voice when you find yourself excited, I'm someone gets off on that, your boyfriend obviously has little choice. I'm sure there's beauty in everything, even You.

Maybe I'm just scared that once having let Your lifestyle, the comfort of Your voice penetrate me, I might once again find myself alone and standing there like one of those silent movie mimes turning their pockets inside out, luckless, lintless and alone.

Eh, who am I kidding. Some days it's all just as simple as that I like counting tools better than socializing with them. Sucks to be you I guess.