Change of Plans.

So yeah, change of plans. Thanks to the HR lady stupidly scheduling me for the day AFTER I told them I had to stop working (and accordingly axing that scheduling), I'll be heading up to my lakehouse Sunday, August 7th. At this point I'm sort of beyond all that Snellville has to offer, including a minimal but more than welcome amount of income.

I didn't get to see Ben Folds tonight because of Target. People would be wise to not inform me how spectacular his performance was for the sake of their genitalia's well-being.

After working a 6-close shift at Target tonight on tax-free weekend, I'm about ready to scan my eyes with an LRT and blind myself so that all I see is red the rest of my tortured existence. The only enjoyment I get now is fucking with my para-midget supervisor, a well-meaning but slow-witted 4'8 woman with bottlecap spectacles and a charming southern accent. Last night I asked her if I could possibly purchase the refridgerator-sized prop backpack hanging over the entryway to keep in my dorm room, and she walked away laughing, not realizing that I was dead serious. The backpack could be stuffed with pillows and used as a chair, or drunken fools could be placed and zippered inside and thus beaten with wiffle ball bats until bruised like a California Raisin. I pondered all the fun uses of my oversized red backpacks during my eight-hour shift last night, but the only fun I managed to squeak out tonight was insisting that I spend an hour with a popped collar, encouraging para-midget and para-Kevin Spacey (who replaced para-midget) to do the same to maintain "Team Unity". This was not met with much praise, and I'm pretty sure they'll be happy to see me go. Good riddance to the big red bullseye, I say. There was a cinema-worthy moment where Neal and I were taking in carts from the parking lot after closing, and we both paused and gazed at the darkness-shrouded corporate logo of doom. Neal said bluntly, "I'm gonna burn this fucking place down", and I laughed.

Okay, maybe it wasn't too cinema-worthy, but it was still amusing. Since I'm going to have a lot of free time after moving up to South Carolina, I'm going to use some of it to write a psuedo-memoir of my time at Target, implementing several anecdotes from this livejournal and many that I glossed over and will no doubt embellish. I smell a publishing deal.

-Brief rant-
I hate, hate, HATE, Exploding Dog. I don’t know why people love these bizarre cartoons that look like they were drawn by Charles Manson while he was being orally satisfied by a fellow inmate in prison. All it is is god-awful stick figures looking at badly drawn inanimate objects, and some emo writing to go along with the caption, usually out of context. A stick figure looks at a horse with three legs and the caption reads “I wish I had a pony to call my own”. Fucking brilliant. THAT’S art? I could produce better art by wiping my ass and putting the toilet paper in a frame. I much prefer Huffing it up, which is a cuter, more bizarre but equally ridiculous series of strange drawings that delight in the world of non-sequiter. Stuff like this (titled, "Suggested tattoo for my husband" makes me laugh. Shit like this makes me want to seek medical attention immediately.

And now, something even more not funny that is funny.