Yesterday marked my one year anniversary at my job. Meaning, I have reached my goal, but most importantly, meaning more vacation and a raise. Actually, maybe the most important thing is that they didn't decide I was incompetent after the first week.
I don't talk much about work on here, because it's not very exciting and also I don't want to get dooced. I took this job because I didn't know what else I wanted to do, you know, as in Career capital C. I still don't. Well, I do, kind of, in a way . . . but a really vague way that provides no clear direction. A way I have no idea how to navigate on my own and the thought of getting completely lost scares the shit out of me. And that is messy. Do you know how many pairs of pants I have gone through? Aaaaand, we're entering dangerous territory.
This morning Robert Patrick was being interviewed on the radio (I realize that totally veered away from the previous subject but I don't care so why do you? Huh? Why?), because he is the kind of B-list celebrity willing to be interviewed by radio DJs in Dayton, Ohio. That's right. Robert Patrick. AKA Johnny Cash's father. AKA brother of that Filter guy. Is it Filter? I think it's Filter. But MORE IMPORTANTLY he is Special Agent Not Fox Mulder, FBI. And I used to hate him for that. But now I forgive him. I'm sure he cares.
Anyway, apparently he used to live in Kettering (where I am FROM) AND he went to the middle school that was turned into an elementary school that I ALSO WENT TO. We are like best friends, let me tell you. Except he's like 20 years older than I am. Details. We can still be friends. Who are you to try and keep us apart?
This is the part of the post where it becomes really, really obvious that I have absolutely nothing of importance to say and I'm just talking out of my ass. As usual. Sometimes I sit here wishing I could say something beautiful about something, but instead I just end up thinking about new ways to combine curse words. Deal with it, shitass*.
*I realize I am very hostile today. I am not sure why**. I apologize.
**PMS. Shut up, hormones.