It's Not Raining but I Won't Quit Singing

Wal-mart is tiring.

Yes, that's right, I have been hired by the largest private company in the WORLD. Sounds impressive, doesn't it? Well, I'll keep my opinions to myself until school starts again and I am in no danger of losing that which fuels me. I will tell you that this whole week I've been too tired working on the remodelling to do much else but fall on the couch and drool. This isn't due to being overworked as much as it is to my faulty impressions of exercise. Apparently walking ALL THE WAY to the car doesn't quite cut it. Neither does switching to sherbet. Oh, dairy products, how I miss thee!

Do you ever find yourself listening to one album over and over again until you grow so sick of it you might just commit suicide? I do that to myself all the time, and am heading that direction now with Jason Mraz's Mr. A-Z. I wish I could stop myself, but self-control in any form has never been listed under the 'strengths' category.

Welp, now it's time to dish up a bowl of rainbow-colored something or other and continue my drooling.

Methinks a Solid Gold Memorial Statue 'Twould Be Appropriate

I'm depressed. I just watched two episodes of Meerkat Manor and saw the last of the Starsky group die off. This isn't news to anyone who has been actually following the series for the past year, but Mozart has been my favorite female meerkat since the first season (Shakespeare was my favorite male), and it was a little rough to see her die. However, as I was watching the last episode she ever appeared in, I realized that the storyline was just begging to be made into some form of media. Just look at it:

A roving male, Wilson, from the Commandos has an intimate encounter with the dominant female, Rocket Dog, of his family's arch rivals the Whiskers. Later he joins up with Mozart, a former member of the Whiskers and the last living member of the Starsky splinter group. Together they set off to try and join the Commandos, who are preparing for battle with the Whiskers on the two's arrival. Wilson runs off to join the fight and is attacked by Rocket Dog. Mozart flees the scene because she has no hope right now of joining either group. The morning after the battle, Wilson searches for his new lover and finds her dead. Poor Mozart may have been a jackal's victim, but no one knows for sure.

I think the people who write for soap operas are keeping close tabs on the natural world. Seriously, this story could rival Romeo and Juliet for its plot twists, love triangle, and tragic (and mysterious) death. Don't be surprised if I try to publish a book that looks suspiciously similar.

Up Next: Unrelated Subject Matter!

If Dollar Bills Could Float I'd Still be Drowning

Why does nobody want to hire me? I don't understand it. I still have all my fingers and teeth, a high school diploma, and a desperate need for tuition funds. Sounds like the perfect candidate for menial labor, right? Well, it seems you and I are wrong, my friend, for I have been scouring the globe for someone kind enough to throw fistfuls of money in my direction for weeks now, and all I've gotten is an email from Wells Fargo wishing me luck in all my future endeavors. Thank you, bank of Americans, but it's going to take more than a polite bit of data to give me a chance to fail Physics again.

It's possible that these companies know something I don't know. Perhaps my name is conspicuously similar to that of a suspected terrorist - say, Marianne Bunt, for instance - and they just aren't willing to risk hiring an affiliate of Al Qaeda. In fact, my hopes may have just been completely dashed by connecting myself to Ms. Bunt on a public site. A faithful Kmart employee Googles the names of every prospective hireling, and upon seeing our two names together, makes a shamefully incorrect assumption, and dashes away from the communal desktop to notify his supervisor. My bad luck ensures that this supervisor is an accomplice of Bunt, he informs her with his customary promptness, and she vows to silence me before I reveal too much information. I, oblivious to all this, continue to lie on the couch, grease my fingers with some Lays Salt and Vinegar, and stare dumbly at Rogers and Hammerstein's State Fair. Bunt carefully monitors my house for weeks before sneaking through my neighborhood while the night is at its darkest, which is completely unnecessary because my neighbors are too busy trying to keep their children from being run over to notice much else. Since I am no match for a trained killer in any respect (except for my incomparable ability to waste vast amounts of time), she ends me right quickly.

My potential demise isn't the only thing that keeps me hating job hunting. What right do these people have to say I'm not organized or friendly enough to sell snow cones in the parking lot of the Laundromat? They let Stephanie Meyers publish books, but I can't sell snow cones? Something is wrong with the world as I perceive it, I tell you what.

The Unexpected Birth of a Squirming Little Potato Head

This is a first for me. Believe me when I say I am a virgin when it comes to blogs, and you'll all have to bear with me as I struggle through the learning process of bearing my soul to a faceless world.
I wasn't even interested in blogging until quite recently. After browsing through a few of the blogs of people I either know or respect, rarely both, I decided that the prospect of dumping my opinions into the collective sandbox we call the internet appealed to me. I will now attempt to shape the sand of my thoughts into coherent ideas and will hopefully leave off the confusing and ill-advised metaphors.
Up next: Something amazing, I guess.