It's raining cats and dogs. And rain. Minus the cats and dogs.

That's right. Atlanta is getting soaked. I love the rain, mostly because it cools everything off. I get really pissy when I'm too hot. It makes me lazy, too. And feel all gross and sticky. When I'm too cold, however, it motivates me to get up off my ass (until I find a big, fluffy blanket and a giant sweater that is in no way attractive but is so comfortable I don't give a shit, and then snuggle up with Lucy and nap).

And there's your Atlanta weather report.

In other news, work has been interesting as of late. It's great, because work is always going to be interesting. It's owned/run by open-minded, easy going, unconventional people, and they're all stellar. I take for granted the fact that I don't have to worry about saying, "shit!" if I drop something on my foot, and that I can bring my 130 lbs Great Dane to work to play with the owners' basset hounds, and that everyone here (well, the Fab 5 at least) supports and encourages everyone else. Plus, the damn place is a zoo, and there's always something going on at the complex.

All of this hilarity is creatively motivating for me. I haven't been painting as much anymore, but I have been trying to sketch and play with color and all that nonsense. And when I say "nonsense," I really mean it. My random little doodles are in no way the work of... well... I wanted to say "a master", but they're really not even student-caliber.

Despite the amateur nature of my little doodles, they're occasionally amusing. So it was no surprise the other day when I had a spark of inspiration, and grabbed my pen for a 5 minute sketch break.

What happened next was terrifying. For some reason, what I imagined in my head was WAY less bizarre and creepy when in my head than it was once on paper. I swear to god that there's a story surrounding this, um, thing. But that's not important. What is important, is that you say hello to MissBeard.

Zombies of the canine persuasion.

Holy hell, changes are exhausting.

I've recently quit my shady boring crap job as a(n) underpaid taken for granted unappreciated illegally compensated office manager, have started attending classes full-time at GSU, and am looking for a bartending job (though I have one that I should be able to start in October, fingers crossed). All of this change has just worn me the fuck out, so apologies for not being around as often.

I find myself jotting things down throughout the day that I want to discuss here, and yet I lack the time, energy, or mindset to expand upon them. Fortunately for me, I can write whatever the hell I want here, so suck it. Or just, you know, feel free to expand upon whatever yourself. See? I'm encouraging you to take some creative initiative. You're welcome.

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Upon discussing obscene and/or favorite phrases and slanderous names with a friend, one came up that I had never heard. 

*Side note: A few favorites of mine would be: "Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ," from The Blues Brothers; "ass-goblin" from my ridiculous childhood; "douche-canoe" from the darling Jenny, The Bloggess; and old reliable, "fuck," from my dad/grandparents when they're driving or watching football (okay, okay, Gram isn't one for cursing during football. And she usually only says "fuck" in the car if Grandpa is the one driving).*

It would seem the only reason I had never heard this turn of phrase was because I don't watch that comedian that people all love to hate... ugh... what the fuck is his name? He was in Waiting, and other nonsense. He's all loud... Okay, whatever. I can't think of his name off-hand and I'm already late leaving for dinner with my family, so you guys just guess and remind me. Anyway, the expression was "Satan's asshole." I found it wildly amusing, having never heard it before. Then my charming friend said they had one better. 

In keeping with the religious theme of Satan's asshole, he said his favorite offensive expression was, "Jesus Christ on a stick with BBQ sauce". As I sat there, visualizing Jesus Christ (or, at least, the most propagated image of him) on a stick, with Jack Daniel's BBQ sauce all over his nice linen robe and a horde of starving cannibals surrounding him (cannibals which may or may not have been zombies), I started wondering if that hadn't been the plan all along. The Romans were considered the masters of the known world, once upon a time. What if they wanted to eat Jesus, just because he was considered a deity? The idea isn't that off the wall, is it? I mean, we massage our cows. We eat things that are exotic or dangerous and potentially fatal just to prove that we're the most badass species (or so we think) on the planet. What if the Romans just wanted to taste the "lamb of God"?

"Yeah, it's funny because 'on a stick' is like the cross, you know, and then he's covered in BBQ sauce, heh heh heh," was the sentence that broke my concentration. 

Okay, I have to run to dinner and try to nonchalantly take a photo of my dad making a zombie face. It's a long story. I'll explain later. 

And this round goes to.... Chuck Norris. But you already knew that.

The past 24 hours have been completely insane (not that I'm wildly familiar with insanity, mind you). I don't know what is going on, but I am totally baffled. Like, more than usual.

Life has been like, "Hey! Here, have something AWESOME!" Then fate, or Satan (for you zealots out there), has been like, "Dude, Life, what the hell are you doing? That was a bit much, don't you think? I better balance that shit out, stat." And then Life is all, "Hey, now. Come on Fate/Satan FATAN. That was harsh, dude. Like, WAY more drastic than that good thing I did. Now I have to do something awesome again. Fucker. Oh, by the way, Chuck Norris called. He asked me to tell you-" then Life roundhouse kicks Fatan in the face.

Now that this is an actual fight, I figure someone ought to keep score.

-Realizing that my financial aid went through -point to Life
-Spending 4 hours on my feet,behind a bar, after being unable to find the shard of glass embedded in my foot -point to Fatan
-Getting free Braves tickets for a friend that really, really wanted them but couldn't afford them (and the requisite teasing about their love for the only sport almost as lame as golf) -point to Life
-Helping a friend through a traumatic experience that involved all kinds of insanity, cops, misunderstandings, and the like -point to Fatan
-Waking up late for work by 30 minutes this morning -point to Fatan
-Hearing from a darling old friend that I haven't seen in far too long-point to Life
-Getting totally dumped by my band... stupid time constraints -point to Fatan
-Being commissioned by a serious art collector to do a painting for his new house -point to Life
-FINALLY getting the glass out of my foot, using nothing but ingenuity and some cuticle clippers -point to Life
- Forgetting to eat today -point to my figure, and irritability

So I'm off to fly home, deal with dogs, fly to class, and then go home again before going to karaoke. Jesus Christ, I need a Jack and Coke nap.

Work, work, work, work. Hey boys! How ya doin'? Didja miss me?

I was giving my number to a woman on the phone at work, so she could call me back, when I said, "Four, zero, one, one. Yep. And my extension is 2001." Her reply was, "Oh! I like that extension. That's a good extension." So I mindlessly replied with, "That's what SHE said... I mean... uh... Thanks."

Okay, so I only said "that's what she said" silently to myself. But my brain was like, "Say it! SAY IT. SAYITSAYITSAYITSAYIT." Clearly, I need a nap. Or a drink. Damn me for leaving my cosmopolitan-boots at home.

Work has been so entertaining lately. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Or the lack of serious pressure and insanity that I have been dealing with for the past year and a half. Or both. Or all three. 

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As I go through my day, I tend to get burnt out on working and decide to play on Facebook   edit photos from last weekend's party   brush up on my NFL stats   stare blankly into space read the BBC world news. I occasionally hit up CNN, but I find that the best reporting on the US tends to come from anywhere but the US. And the BBC is awesome.

I came across an article today that was about how the children of sperm donors are finding their half-siblings, and occasionally even tracking down the donors. It was really interesting, but I had to read it three times to really grasp what was being said. Why? Because the last name of one of the children the article highlights is -wait for it- CLAPOFF. As in, to clap one off? As in spanking the monkey? As in choking the snake, as in jerking it in a cup to pay for the large pizza with the works and the six pack of PBR you're going to consume later that night?

So the article was like, "The offspring of blah blah sperm donor blah CLAPOFF." And then I would start laughing maniacally to myself, and then I would think of other euphamisms for male masturbation, and then I would realize that my eyes were still reading the article, and my brain was trying to follow and pretend as though it wasn't amused (even though it totally was), so I'd pay attention again and read, "...sperm donation enabled two mothers to give birth blah blah blah the internet age has allowed their twins Jonah and Hilit Jacobson in Georgia and Jesse and Jayme CLAPOFF...." And it would start all over again.

I was going to ask if I ought to be concerned about what I thought was immaturity on my part. That was the point of this post, initially. But, actually, the Clapoff thing is REALLY fucking hysterical, and totally chock full of high-brow laughs. I wonder if the guys at CNN tracked those kids down to do a story on insanely, hilariously ironic last names and then their brilliant story was shot down by The Man, a.k.a. their boss that had never taken a single journalism class or known anything about what gathers public interest, so they just went with what they could find in a pinch, while sticking with the same general subject.

I'm sure that's what happened. I mean, come on- HAHAHA, oh, I totally just said "come on"! Hahaha..... Man. That's fucking awesome. What was I talking about?

BOWNED. Fuck. I mean owned.

I just went to type a charming, but still somewhat professional email to my boss. And yet, for some reason, my hand-eye-coordination thinks that professionalism is bullshit. It also thinks it isn't getting enough action, because Hand-Eye Coordination is being a HUGE slut today.

For example, instead of typing "I would love to," I wrote, "I would love you." It gets worse.

"I know you're busy as hell," became, "I know you're busty as hell."

"I have that log at my desk [referring to the credit card log I use for collections, etc.]" became, "I have that flog at my desk."

Those are the only examples of the skanky typos (though there were a few normal, G-rated typos, too).

True story. And I am so very glad that I proofread my emails before sending them. At least, usually. God, I grope. HOPE. I mean hope.

And that didn't happen because I'm thinking about such inappropriate things while I ought to be working probably. Get your minds out of the gutter. JEEZ (with an "e"....).

P.S. Just so you know, I'm not currently drunk. Here's a photo for comparison.

Me, being drunk at karaoke.

P.P.S. Do you remember that part in Crocodile Dundee (you have to pronounce it "dun DEE") where that kid pulls out a knife, and Crocodile Dundee says, "That's not a knoife. This is a knoife." And then he pulls a machete out of his boot? I can't get that out of my head, because I keep hearing, "That's not a drunk. This is a drunk." Except that I'm not going to pull a cosmopolitan out of my boot because 1) I'm not wearing boots, I'm wearing really cute sandals that are not conducive to hiding liquor; and 2) I'm at work, and it would be a bit really unprofessional to hide a cosmo in my boot while at work, and probably worse to drink said shoe-cosmo. Hear that, Hand-Eye Coordination? That's called keeping my job.