Snippets from my brain, (ye be warned)...

While watching Dead Like Me this evening, it occured to me that my friends and I are the spitting image of this show: Smart, but really into fart jokes. (Or, if Matthew Perry's available, falling down works, too.)

No one likes a snitch, a braggart or a sore winner. I mean, being a sore loser is one thing, but being a sore winner is just, well, dirty. It's almost as bad as being a hate-monger who preaches acceptance, or a person yelling at others because they detect "judgement in their voices," with judgement in their voice.

Stealing books sucks. Stealing Leonard Cohen books is the least kosher thing in the world, like I wouldn't notice. Although in this case, I suppose "stealing" should be replaced by "keeping," but it all amounts to the same thing. Especially since it's the fourth time I've had to replace this book (Twice because it fell apart and now twice because it's walked away), so it doesn't get loaned out anymore. Lesson learned. On the other hand, $8.95 is a small price to pay to have someone who doesn't like me out of my life.

My manager thinks I'm an intellect. No kidding. She asked me to explain what "sycophant," the beginning part of my email means. She, being French, misheard and then misread it as "psychopath." This actually made me blush, which in turn made her think it was something dirty. And then she was so impressed, she called me an intellect. This brings the list to: artsy, low-maintenence, smart, a team player and an intellect. I've also noticed that every time she tells someone what I was doing previously, my old job title escalates. Who needs to lie on their resume when you have a manager this cool and willing to do it for you?

I use "sycophant" with irony, but I delight in my delight in cartoons. Irony and delight are two of my favourite things.

This is the best thing I've read all day: "Cordelia will now often request to be taken to the toilet. Generally only for urination, though. She seems to crave the feeling of comfort and security that only comes from hauling around a pile of lukewarm crap in one’s pants." I found it while Googling "irony."

Reese's Pieces are the best things ever created, and I can't even eat them at work - The one girl who's newer than me is allergic to nuts. That's not exactly ironic so much as it is unfair.

Did you know that if you know someone's talking about you, you'll invariably listen? It's the worst thing on earth, 'cause you know at any time you might hear (or read) something you don't like. I've still managed not to look myself up on the system at work, though. Kudos to me.

Even if it doesn't end the way you want it to, once it's over you can sleep again.

No matter how much someone, say, your mother, loves you, they will always be able to wail you in the back of the head with a stool. I finally learned last night why my head is lopsided and bumpy in places. She's also stolen my much-coveted copy of "The Egging of Corey Haim." Thanks, mom.

BJ and Buddy are whores. Well, not really, not anymore. But that doesn't change the fact that they don't pay us the attention we're due.

Every morning I promise myself I'll be in bed by 10 and every night when ten rolls around I start begging for more time. It's a vicious cycle, n'est ce pas?

Harry Potter books are like fine wines. I'm serious. Order of the Phoenix is better the third time around (I've been broke, I'm re-working my way through my library again), even though I know that Sirius is going to die in the next 100 pages. Woe is me.

No matter how badly you want to go to bed, if you try to make a quick post to your blog, not only is it not a quick post, but publishing also encounters almost every problem known to blogging man. Thus extending my stay by an extra fifteen minutes.

Good night!!