So I wrote the last post after having been to The Dubliner, The Libertine, and The Blarney Stone. Apparently, I only go to bars with "The" in the name. I remember vaguely having written it, but that gong thing was news to me when I re-read it. I am very proud that I managed to spellcheck. I forget to in text messaging with T9 and then I end up sending people stuff like "I already frank too much to in anywhere."
I saw a new legless homeless guy. I named him Carl. I have no idea what happened to Legless Joe. That makes me sad. Also, Starbucks hates me. I am only worthy to drink their wares, not to stand behind the counter and listen to the 9,482,316th Swarley joke. I told you people I don't interview well. This other advertising agency hates me too. That interview went better than any interview I have had since that time Pat and I talked about shoes for 30 minutes and then she took me to her boss whose first question was "When can you start?" I have no idea what specifically about me they hated. I asked. I got a bureaucratic non-answer. Hmm, what is wrong with me? I feel the need to make a list.
ReadBecca's Faults
Superhumanly messy
Impatient
Moody
Supremely irritable
Interviews poorly
Doesn't iron anything
Procrastinates
Perfectionist
Hasn't had sex in five years
Crap, I have to cut the list short. The Tuesday night coffee house entertainment is setting up and I can't stay here and listen to any singer-songwriter bullshit. I can barely stand the Sirius coffee house channel they play here at WRC (White Rock Coffee. Fuck Starbucks.). There is no need for a mellow acoustic cover of any Van Halen song, especially Jump. The grocery store I used to shop at that closed played The Clash and Oingo Boingo. Minyard's rocked.
Hey, guess what. Tomorrow night Stef's taking me to see The Police. Wooooooooooooooooo!
Remember, kids, don't frank and drive.
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