2004-01-22
I'm at work and I have twenty minutes to kill.

"Kill" sounds so harsh.

Let's try a the kinder, gentler version of that statement.

I have twenty minutes to shirk responsibility and be non-productive until I go home.

That's better.

Now I just sound like a slacker.

But, I mean, what could I really accomplish in twenty minutes?

Without my husband present that is. :)

Yes, I am a dirty, dirty girl.

But that's beside the point. Let's FOCUS PEOPLE.

I'm trying to justify why I should be here rambling in my online diary instead of doing very important, life altering work.

Okay, maybe "life altering" is a bit much. I'm not that important. Last time I checked I wasn't a supreme being.

YET. (Insert Evil Laughter)

But my plans for world domination aside, taking twenty minutes to engage in some literary intercourse is a valuable use of one's time, don't you think?

Yes, I did say "intercourse".

Refer back to the "dirty, dirty girl" statement. You pervert.

I guess I could file something. But, between you and me, there is far too much filing going on in society today. Not to get all philosophical on you - but don't you think that "filing cabinets" are a metaphor for our emotional self that we inhibit and repress away from the world - and that "files" represent the various conflicting components our our identity that we choose to keep closed off from others thus fracturing our sense of self???

Yeah, I don't know what I just said either. It's pretty meaningless. Some people yawn when they're bored, I philosophize metaphysical filing cabinets.

It's either that or I'll start clicking my tongue. Kinda like those African tribes in National Geographic.

Except my clicking isn't a language. It's just a pass time.

Actually, maybe I am saying something in African tribe clicking tongue language.

Next time, I'm in the Africa - I'll try it out.

My luck I'll probably say: "Please eat my head for dinner tonight."

On second thought, I'll contain my clicking sound to the confines and safety of my living room. Where there's only minimal threat that my head will be eaten for dinner.

Okay, eight minutes to go.

It's your turn. Entertain me.

C'mon. Dance with a monkey or pierce something.

Go ahead. I'm waiting.

Fine. Be like that.

I am SO VERY BORED. I'm the only one here. In this big, dark office.

If I wanted to, I could run around naked and sit on everyone's chair.

But that is so last week.

And then there's the problem with the Security Guard who pops his head in once in awhile.

But, honestly, I don't really think he would mind if he saw a naked, young woman running around the office. Although, he's kinda up there in the years - he might have a heart attack.

I don't want to kill the poor, old little Security Guard just because I have excess energy and a penchant for naked jogging.

You know, this diary entry has deteriorated into being downright crude.

I can't believe I had "security guard" and "naked jogging" in the same sentence. It's like a letter to Penthouse.

However, the good news is I've successfully wasted twenty minutes of valuable time doing absolutely nothing worthwhile.

The bad news is I've successfully wasted twenty minutes of valuable time doing absolutely nothing worthwhile.

Hmmm. Interesting.

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