2003-12-10 | 5:41 p.m.
but you go all the way to being brutal

Things I Will Never Do, by Jane
Get paid, evidently.
Knit.

What the fuck with the knitting already. Everyone is such a precious little knitter these days. Knit knit knit! You can't swing your arm in blogville (oh God, is Blogville a real place? You know it is. You know it is some collection-of-blogs site) without bitchslapping 40 knitters. Maybe it is awesome to knit (doubt it), but the trendiness of it is nauseating. I'm starting a knitting-sucks Diaryring. No, not really. Although...

Nicky Hilton is so cute. Now that I see Paris everywhere, I can tell the difference. Whoa, what a difference. They used to just look to me like a blonde blur.

Did I ever tell you my horrible racist (is it?) "they all look alike" problem I have with blonde women? Honestly, when there is more than one blonde person I don't already know like in a movie or something, I tend to mix them up. It's terrible. That's why I will go blonde, to understand. Blonde Like Me. I was blonde until age 3. Then I turned light brown and only got blonde in the summer. Then, 12 years ago, I started dying my hair varying shades of red and never looked back. Blonde. It's coming. Get ready. Soon you won't be able to tell me apart from (I was trying to think of someone blonde, but again, they all blended).

Have I horribly offended enough people yet today? Probably not. Better keep trucking.

I am in this snit thanks to work. Ah, work. What would I do if you weren't making me want to drive a spike through my head at all times? What would my mind be full of? Love and genius ideas, probably. But instead, this. Thanks, work. Thanks for not only never ever paying me and making me wait around all day for (awful awful) transcripts to turn into something approaching readable, but also taking away my will to live. You really are the gift that keeps on giving.

Sooooo. El Fano put in his "Jane needs to work here and make lots of money as my lap dancer, oops, I mean assistant" proposal today. I'll know the score next Wednesday. At least they didn't say "NO! NO! A thousand times NOOO!" right off the bat.

I was supposed to clean my bedroom and maybe put up my Christmas tree today. Instead I am sitting here seething over work (which I am not even doing, clearly) and venting to you poor abused readers.

Just think, someday, when I am rich and famous and have deleted this damned diary, you can sell copies of it on eBay for thousands. Don't worry, I'll let you know the day before I delete it so you can download it all and reap the rewards.

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