Some stupid thoughts I had at work

In one of the back from commercial stills, Tina is dressed like a lesbian! Tie and Taylors and all! Damn you, Tina Fey.

For some reason, I really liked how when Tina was like, “Yeah, Hillary’s a bitch, and so am I,” she pointed her pencil at Amy and said, “So is this one.” I dunno, for some reason, referring to someone as “this one” connotes great affection for me. I like it. I do it sometimes, when I think of it. In other news, how am I going to make it until Baby Mama is released in theaters?

So last night, we moved the entire fucking store around, and I spent most of that horribleness with the girl I have a stupid crush on. She doesn’t talk much, like me, but when I did say something, she would usually snicker. Or ignore me entirely, which was just so odd—I guess because I’m used to people at that place jumping on every word I utter, usually to make fun of me or pick a fight with me. Oh, wait, maybe that’s just Kaeli. Well, anyway, then I shattered another glass bottle of aromatherapy lotion, this one black currant vanilla, which is allegedly good for…setting the mood. I was, like, oh god, I smell like sex lotion now. While I stand close to the girl I have a useless crush on, because not only is she straight, she’s marrying some dude some time soon. And then she said something like, “This sensuality stuff isn’t doin’ anything for me,” and I was like, “Eep.” But I said, “Well, good. That might be a little distracting.” Or something. The whole aromatherapy area reeked of that shit, and the floor was slippery, and I cut my finger on the broken glass, and I STILL SMELL LIKE IT. I took a shower this morning! And! It didn’t even work. Black currant vanilla and jasmine vanilla are the aromatherapy scents that are supposed to make you feel all sexy and shit, and it had no affect on the girl I have a stupid crush on. It also had no affect on me. Maybe because we were all sweaty and cranky and disgusting, because that store gets so gross. Heh, also we had to put up new shelf-edgers that, like, tell what the products are, and my cabinet was “Sensuality,” so on the shelf with the massage oil (oh yes), the shelf read “Sensual Massage,” which I kept saying over and over in an Austin Powers voice, but only in my head for fear that no one would get it and then think I’m even more of a weirdo than I really am. Or than they already think I am.

Sigh. But the girl—she wears these glasses, and she laughs at me sometimes, and I can’t help myself. I mean, sometimes when Kaeli wears glasses she doesn’t repulse me as much as usual. Glasses have a powerful effect on me. (Kaeli’s not really repulsive—we just have one of those third grade relationships, where we say horrible things to each other because we like each other. As friends, god. I don’t have a crush on every straight girl I work with.)

I don’t care if Amber Lee was just her best friend, and she ran away and got married, and blah blah. Brandi was totally in love with her.

My legs are sore from all the squatting and kneeling I had to do to put away lotion. Fuckin’ fuck.

I am not a writer, but someone who knows how to use the English language to express herself. Mostly. The thing preventing me from being a writer is that I cannot do this on command, and I cannot do it so that I can have a reason for someone to read something I wrote. I write stories all the time, but they never have a point or an ending or even a somewhat not muddled theme. This is just stuff I do to amuse myself that wouldn’t captivate anyone else.