When I see you, you make my high come down...

Tonight after I got off work, I stayed in. Turned the music up loud. And attempted to be somewhat productive. Key word is attempted... see where I am now?

I need to clean up my apartment. Bad. As in I need to spend about four days snorting meth and injecting epinephrine and then using that energy to go through all my laundry (put away clean and sort out stuff that is now too big), vacuum my carpet, do my dishes, get rid of the random shit that builds up on open flat surfaces, and, oh, how about finish unpacking my crap? Yeah. It's pretty bad up in here. Even my cats think so. They let me know by puking on my floor at every possible opportunity. Generally when I'm getting my stuff together to walk out the door, just so I know I'll have something waiting for me when I get home. Thanks, guys.

So yeah. I got a little done. A little. Baby steps, baby steps. One sad thing; I was planning on listening to records while cleaning. But alas, my turntable is no longer working. Went to put on some shitty album I bought at Goodwill or Habitat and, nothing. Where the AC cord plugs into the back has been loose, and has come out of the frame before, but the wires were still fine, and everything worked. But I guess something happened recently where the thing just doesn't get power. Sadness.

The other night, I decided to watch a movie in bed. Fired up the old desktop computer that I never use anymore and opened up the DVD tray... lo and behold, there was a DVD already in there. Ha. What was it, you ask? It was my cheating, cowardly, waste-of-time ex-boyfriend's copy of I Heart Huckabees. Pretty much his favorite movie- he went on and on about it. And guess who doesn't have it anymore? Him. (Even though given where he is now, he's probably gained a few other critters since I acquired his favorite film). I thought I had returned it, but what he got back was an empty DVD case. I suppose that since it was the night he left me for a walking STD with the brain of a fruit fly and the personality of a clone of every other female mid-20's townie-hipster-wannabe that I was gathering his belongings, while crying uncontrollably and doing my best to not vomit and/or hurl myself from my second story balcony, it didn't cross my mind to look inside the DVD case I was packing up. Ooops. I was a bit distracted. My bad.

I have decided to banish white socks from my footwear repertoire. They just aren't any fun. I will keep what I have, but will purchase no more. From now on, only fun colorful or patterned socks. Life is too short for boring-ass socks. And no, I will not go out of my way to ensure that my socks match my clothing. I will only ensure that my socks each match each other. Because duh... mismatched socks are so tacky.

At work today, a couple customers returned an electric crackling fire log. You know, one of those fake logs with a lightbulb behind an orange moving cover that makes it seem like fire? Yeah, one of those. Nothing wrong with it. Works fine. But we can't resell it. Because the thing REEKED of weed. Not smoked weed, but sticky, fresh-from-the-baggie weed. Or so I've been told that's what that smells like... When I say reeked, I mean you could have turned the thing on and just the little bit of heat that lightbulb put off probably would have been enough to hotbox the room. It was strong enough that we all took the damn thing completely out of the box to make sure they didn't leave a stash in there. For the rest of the day, it was a fun game of "Name That Smell!". The box stayed behind the customer service desk, and every time an employee would walk by, whoever was behind the desk would call them over and have them smell the logs. "What do you smell?" Most people got it right off... there'd be that moment when it hit them... snnifffff....... Haha! Whoa! They were dubbed the GanjaLogs. Too bad we don't really sell such a thing. Afterall, I do get a discount.

Not that I would ever buy such a product or would even know what to do with it...