Well, I was going to blog leisurely about Being Off Work On a Friday Morning, but Maggie has just told me that the Israelis have Arafat. Apparently, when you go to bed early, the world changes. I need to watch more tv.

So, I'm going to go watch CNN.   ¶ 3/29/2002 11:35:00 AM

  I don't like to tell people things. Because then they get all uncomfortable and weird and drop the subject. Which is why I don't. Because if I do, I want someone to offer comforting words, silly anecdotes, and maybe even a suggestion to make me feel better. Because if they just say, "oh," and drop the subject, then it makes me feel really fucking stupid.   ¶ 3/28/2002 04:22:00 PM

  See what Care Bear you are.

Tee!  ¶ 3/28/2002 03:42:00 PM

  Weird. An hour ago, I was so frustrated I wanted to punch someone. And now I have this overwhelming urge to call up everyone I know and tell them I love them. There is massive joy-having.

I fucking hate PMS.

Someday in the far future (despite anything Alicia tries to convince me of), I will probably be pregnant. I apologize in advance to everyone who knows me or comes into contact in any with me at that time.   ¶ 3/28/2002 03:18:00 PM

  "Pressure" by Billy Joel is playing over and over again in my head. No. It's not coming from in my head. It's reverberating out of my soul. And it's building and building, and the only way it's going to stop is when I explode.   ¶ 3/28/2002 02:25:00 PM

  ANOTHER ONE!!!

This one LOOKED at the sign on the door. Then asked me where the discrepencies box he said he was going to hang outside of his office was. Well, you ASSFUCK... why don't you try looking OUTSIDE OF HIS OFFICE.  ¶ 3/28/2002 12:50:00 PM

  Puck has Idiopathic Epilepsy, which basically means that there isn't anything wrong with him, but he has siezures sometimes. And there isn't really much you can do, unless the seizures get really bad and really close together. The treatment involves a daily dose of some drug that halts seizures, but is a seditive and has the possibility of causing liver failure. So. Hopefully it won't come to that.   ¶ 3/28/2002 12:49:00 PM

  The scene: Mikkie is sitting at her desk. A student is gathering her things to leave. Another student approaches and halts in the open doorway. He is male, wearing a ratty tee-shirt and a dirty white baseball cap. A handmade sign on bright yellow paper is taped to the door. It says, "This is NOT Dr. Dorn's Office. Dr. Dorn is in Room 239 at the end of the hall." Male student stands dumbly in the doorway.

Mikkie: Can I help you?

Male Student: Uh.... Is this Dr. Dorn's Office?

Mikkie: (sighs) Read the sign.

Male Student: Uh..... (Looks around bewilderedly)

Mikkie: ON THE DOOR.

Male Student: (looks at sign. Grins stupidly.) Uh.

Mikkie: DOWN THE HALL. ROOM 239.

Male Student: k.

And that, my friends, is what I deal with EVERY DAY.   ¶ 3/28/2002 11:49:00 AM

  You are Kimber!



Hee! She was always my favorite.   ¶ 3/28/2002 11:15:00 AM

  Hee! I was supposed to proctor an exam, but I totally got out of it. I conned a grad student into doing it for me.   ¶ 3/28/2002 10:51:00 AM

  You can really tell when it's time to go home when you start trying to make up math that doesn't exist.   ¶ 3/27/2002 05:25:00 PM

  Grrrrr. Advising....

Students get really old after a while. They're all the same, really. And I made the mistake of agreeing to take a late lunch, and now I'm starving.   ¶ 3/27/2002 12:06:00 PM

  Alicia and I are supposed to go to a Yoga class this afternoon. At the time we agreed to do it, it sounded like great fun, not to mention an opportunity to work on flexibility (of which I have none). But now that it's looming... I have fear. Fear of stumbling into a class of teeny little flexy girls who give me strange looks as I attempt to coerce my lumbering, ungraceful, and ANTI-flexy self into doing yoga.   ¶ 3/26/2002 04:08:00 PM

  I just found out that my boss has volunteered me to do some things for my ex-boyfriend's mom. For a bit of background - the ex despises me. He seriously thinks that I cheated on him, and I so totally didn't. I think he just decided that I did to make breaking up make sense, because he couldn't comprehend that we just weren't right together anymore. I'm assuming that his mom also thinks that I cheated on him. This should prove very interesting.   ¶ 3/26/2002 11:03:00 AM

  Mariah Carey Syndrome swept the Academy Awards last night. Breasts bounced about cautionlessly, putting several attendees in danger of having their eyes put out. Nipples brazenly stood up and refused to be lost in the crowd.

Gwyneth Paltrow was probably the worst offender, as her boobs looked like rotten fruit had been stuffed into the bodice of her gown. Two squishy, uneven little squashes protruding from her chest. It seriously hurt to look at her. Sandra Bullock, of whom I am a big fan, disappointed me last night with glimpses of her nipples. I never, ever wanted to see Sandra Bullock's nipples. She's the girl next door. The Big Sister. It broke my heart.

Most of the offenders were wearing perfectly decent, lovely dresses that hung down over their bra-less chests about 2 and 1/2 inches too low. There were far too many of them to list, and many of these folk were people that I don't know and had never heard of. However, I am now well acqainted with their breasts and am on a first-name basis with them.

SUPPORT, people. It's called a bra. They have strapless ones, backless ones, bras with clear straps, halter bras... even little sticky-cups with adhesive that you can glue on that offer at least some manner of support. If you're at the Oscars, you can certainly afford to purchase one (and probably even have one custom-made to go with your dress).
  ¶ 3/25/2002 02:43:00 PM

  Priority Registration is the bane of my existence.  ¶ 3/25/2002 10:53:00 AM