…to return to my hometown has been overwhelming as of late.
It’s like something snapped the other day after a couple correspondences with friends. I was California dreamin’. Now my steady job no longer matters; St. Louis affordability no longer matters, and exploring unfamiliar turf doesn’t either.
Love, however, matters.
Turns out that I just extended my no-good-stuff diet for another week. A total of 14 effin days — and I’m not even done with Day 2.
My fellow workerbee and January 16th baby, Gabe, aka G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, was telling me a story about how he tried to give up Jack In The Box recently, and his prohibition period lasted only five days. So I somehow contracted diarrhea of the mouth and told him that I’d prolong my current diet an extra week if he laid off the JITB for a while. Unfortunately, he called my bluff.
I want to die. I better be dropping pounds over all this panicking.
It’s yet another glorious day at work. Oh yes.
I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to wittle away half my day in front of this bulky, dingy computer monitor from the early ’90s, a time when middle-schoolers rocked Cross Colours and Hammer pants and British Knights. And sometimes, unfortunately, all at once. Thankfully, my parents bought me neither A, B nor C. But yes, I resented them for this.
I love newsrooms. Love the outdated carpet, the outdated computers, the outdated people. Ironic that we’ve been appointed to report on all things current.
And yes, there’s that all-too-familiar stream of flourescence illuminating my face, which has been undergoing an unnerving breakout for the past week. I’m 28, God, won’t you be nice to me already? Take these post-traumatic skin, post-perky figure, post-post-bright-eyed wonderment flaws and offend the forehead of some entitlement-ridden teenager. I’m begging.
Yes, just another glorious Sunday for this workerbee.
I had a “donette” today. I assume Hostess calls them “Donettes” because their ingredients are as artificial and as fattening as they come. And God forbid real doughnuts acquire a fat rep.
I learned a year ago that the Hostess variety contain beef fat, which turned this then-vegetarian off. But “To meat, or not to meat” is no longer a question. I’m meating it up in the Midwest. It’s mainly because vegetables are an anomaly out here. I swear they grow crops of buffalo wings somewhere in Missouri. Yup, perfectly fried and covered in Tabasco.
On top of my donette, I ate a piece of chocolate, some green popcorn (in honor of St. Patrick’s Day) and a bit of Pad-thai. For those of you not working in a newsroom, here’s a rule of thumb: The food is by the copydesk.
Of course, this is the worst food you can put in your body, what with all the candy, cookies, pies, chips and, oh look! buffalo wings! But at least our copydesk admits to its bad reputation: There’s a sign above the desk that reads, “Copy Desk: First in food, last in taste.” I love it.
The AC is blowing right at me as I type. Not loving that so much. I endure this torture day after day after day, whether the weather in St. Louis is 92 or 22. Today it’s 35 — a slight reprieve for this California kid. I have complained about the draft in here to our building manager to no avail. So I took it upon myself and my ingenuity to stuff crumpled newspapers into the air ducts. I don’t care if I get in trouble or if they tell me that I’m wasteful. Nobody reads newspapers, haven’t you heard? So while I fret about my slowly dissolving profession I can at least keep myself warm.
Bright side, people.
