Yoour woamn wiill be astoinshed by yoour erectoin

And your poor spelling.

Porn Spam...

this week has been especially thematic - naughty boys and naughty grannies acting very naughtily, I suspect. Bizarro. And a lot more graphic in the subject line than they normally are - you know, a lot less left to the imagination. I was very excited because I had bought a *brand new external hard drive* to back up my files to and it's not working. So annoyance. Plug and play my ass.

And this is what I'm listening to this lovely, sunny, about to be beery, afternoon... Fabelhof, apart from the lack of external hard drive of course. Ugh, it bugs me just thinking about it, damn darnit dagnammit.

Are you have sweetheart?

Because after nine and half hours of waiting tables, the only thing that's going to get me through this evening is whisky and the prospect of bed. Yesterday, I had a moment when I thought "What is wrong with these people! Do they think it's my job to wait on them or something?" Which made me laugh out loud, through my hospitality-related pain. Smile, though your heart is breaking, little Sarah. And then, today I broke more than just my heart. As a veritable waterfall of plates and glasses rained upon my head I could feel the last few vestiges of my soul just, gently, rip under the strain, like something stretchy that had stretched past it's breaking point. Elastic, or mozzarella or something. This meant that later I found myself crying into the sink over a Travelling Wilburies song. Here is a poem I have composed about my relationship with hospality, written in the "Teen Angst" style. Eggs, coffee. Everyday I go to work, these words ring throughout my head. Do you people want blood? Blood coffee? Blood eggs? The words are like little needles, little knives And they bury their way into my soft tissue. The tissue around my eyes, my brain - I can feel the pressure building. I worry about the potential for implosion. Imploding, folding into myself. Damaged Forever By eggs.