Any way you reich it

Aw, you there, you look peaked. Have you tried Emergency Chocolate? Me Time? You might want to light some candles and take a soothing Aromatherapy Bath. I hate to say anything, but your delicate undereye skin is suffering, and, as a friend and good Christian woman, I must. Cortisol: it’s just hell on the complexion.

At least that’s what I’m going to say to Drunk Cheryl the next time I see her. Honestly, all the aromatherapy in the world isn’t going to help. Have you seen her Fame and Popularity corner? So tacky what she did with that. Can we say Hope-less!

Cheryl’s husband is a piano teacher, and he’s deep into Gilbert and Sullivan these days. When he’s not screaming at Cheryl’s child from a former relationship (i.e. the hours before 3PM), I get to hear little ditties like “Three Little Maids from School Are We” tinkling and plonking through the ceiling. And after 3 PM, this is augmented by the stomping of the spraddled hooves of the child (it may actually be a Clydesdale) and the aforementioned screaming.

So I went out to work at a cafe, and whaddya know, in walked Creepy Neighbor. Creepy Neighbor lives on the top floor. He always wears a beige baseball cap and black turtleneck and workout pants. He also bears a strong facial resemblance to this drunk copywriter I used to have the misfortune of seeing at work, except he smiles a lot. This all bothers me. I’m not saying he was following me, but he was following me. I should spray the deck with Gremlin-Proof and Serial Murderer B-Gone.

Clearly I need to get an office, maybe in another country. The thing is, I don’t DO anything anyway. I mean I do this, and I do that, and I get money, but I realize I’ve turned into one of those people where you have no idea what they do for a living. Sometimes I don’t even know. What was I saying? I need some more anti-oxidants. Then I have Yogilates.

God, me boring self. As you may have noticed, Lambchop jumped ship a few months ago, and she was the head of the Vomitola Mania Division. I usually handled Ennui and Existentialism, so I’m just all over the place these days. There’s no way I can fall down a flight of stairs like she could. I may call a temp agency. A floater, that’s what we need. How about this: I’m weaning off my Mother’s Little Helpers, and I predict a 93% increase in bile and desire to hurt others. Can you stand it?

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