And you know I'm on FIRE!

I totally made PBJ for lunch today. It makes me feel like I'm in first grade. I used to always eat my PBJ at recess, because if I waited until lunch, the bread would be all saturated with J, and even at age six, soggy bread grossed me out. I went through a phase when I was maybe eight or nine when I would make J-only sandwiches. I loved just apricot preserves on white bread. Ew! Didn't I know that the PB is the good part because it's all salty and fatty? Hello? I wish that I'd cut up some celery sticks too; in my warped mind, eating celery negates some of the PB. It's not even the "negative calories" thing (ha! not a myth!); when I snack on vegetables, I talk myself into thinking that it gives me a free pass to snack on an equal amount (or, OK, let's be honest, like 3x as much) of cheese or PB. Although, according to Lauren, celery is totally not a snack.

The nun is back from the Holy Land. On Sunday, I was sure that I was not going to make it at this job; yesterday, I actually had some work to do AND time to write an obscenely long post, so it was kind of the perfect day. I was OK with hearing the nun's stories because she's been gone for 2 weeks. Working with a 72-year-old nun should be a lesson in patience. She makes all sorts of weird smacking noises when she's thinking, which is kind of gross, especially because she often needs to think for a long time. She gets all frustrated with the computer, and thus all impressed when I can figure out how to, oh, I don't know, make a label template. She talks to herself in her office, like, non-stop, but hey, who doesn't? And I can hear her coming up the stairs from a floor away, because she makes this strange whistling sound through her teeth. She's pretty radical for a nun; she's been arrested numerous times at war protests, and she just got back from a two week trip during which she totally rode a camel. I can't say I've ever done that. Well, I could say it, but I'd be lying.

I need to focus on listening to what she's saying when she starts rambling, because she is trying to tell me something, and I need to focus on asking more pointed clarifying questions. I think I did well yesterday. I also need to get better at either taking notes or actually remembering stuff that people tell me. It's true that pushing paper is not my employment destiny, but until I figure out what is, this is a good place to be. I roll into work at 9ish, man, how the fuck can I complain? My commute's like five effing minutes. And I do have sort of a boner for office tools, like hole-punchers and laminators and papercutters, and oh god, I seriously, non-facetiously love fixing paper jams. Oh, does my printer jam like a mu'fucka! Maybe I should grow up to be an Ikon service tech. Oooooh, I could be covered in toner all the time. I'd probably get the black lung.

Beating the nun to work by an hour and a half is simply divine.

I barely have any grandparents left, so I need more old people in my life. Right? Right? I mean, besides my four friends who turn 30 this year. Four! WTF? When did this shit start happening? And when I met all but one of them, they were younger than I am now, but they seemed sooooo old, because I was like 18. People who were 22 seemed ancient, and these guys were 23, 24. Might as well be dead. But I'm so glad they're not.

Oh, and my hair is long enough to put up with none of the napehairs hanging down! The would-be bangs still dangle next to my face, but that's cute, right? Hella.

Hair vs. "Career": hair will always win. Perhaps I should be a stylist.