gotta have my pop!

carribbean queens.

Updated my "About" page today. Let me know what you think. I've included my photo on it for the first time...doing so only after I rendered myself unrecognizeable with Photoshop. Plus, my face is half-obscured by a killer game of Jenga!, so I don't think I'll be found out.

I can't believe the weekend is finally here...in a sea of unbelievably lengthy weeks, this one seemed especially long to me. Seeing as it's 9pm on Friday and I'm having a wild night of posting to my blog and watching terrible syndicated programming, you can see that I'm too exhausted to celebrate the end of it.

Found out this week that the boss is sending my partner and I on an all-inclusive Carribbean vacation as a reward for all our hard work on The Big Launch. I am floored, but suspicious. Does he think I owe him something for this? (Not good, since the two of us are seriously considering looking for a new job at this point.) Or should I simply regard it as a thank you for a job well done? I think I'll do a lot of hard thinking about it over Pina Coladas at the poolside bar. We are leaving in like, two and a half weeks, which leaves me little time to get my flabby ass bikini-ready. Good thing the insane stress of the aforementioned Big Launch has left me sans appetite. Should be good and emaciated by the time we leave.

On a final note, I'm happy to announce that my blog is the number one Google hit for "seeing stars when you blow your nose." Horray!

letter to a friend.

Dear Hilary Duff:

As a personal favour to me, can you please pose for Playboy or at least leak a home sex video à la Paris Hilton? I am growing tired of people flocking to my blog, looking for pictures of your boobs, breasts, nipples, tits, and, thanks to my post from a couple of days ago, your "boobies". I don't understand myself why anyone would want to see you naked, but I thought it would be nice to let you know that the demand is there.

Thank you and have a nice day.

mr. sandman?

5am and I'm up again. I've had about enough of this insomnia thing. It's starting to feel like some sort of cruel psychological experiment. I think I actually managed to render myself unconscious for about three hours last night, thanks to the half-bottle of red wine I consumed while watching American Idol. Then, at around 4am, I was once again alternating between staring at the ceiling and inspecting my arm flab by the light of the moon. Ho hum. It may be time to throw in the towel and buy myself some sleeping pills.

I'm dying here. Perhaps getting up and posting at this hour was a poor choice of activities. Can't. articulate. properly. Having. trouble. spelling. fkgj;aiorj;lfkv.

More later.

UPDATE:
Finally bought those sleeping pills. Finally got some sleep. Aaaaaah. Nothing better than a little chemically induced unconsciousness to get you up and going in the morning. I must do this more often.

long goodnight.

I hate it when my first human contact of the day is having some asshole who lives in my building let the door slam in my face on his way outside. Good thing I was grumpy enough to actually call said guy an asshole today. A little juvenile, but, hey, it felt good.

Why am I grumpy, you ask? Well, besides the usual, I have insomnia right now. I haven't slept AT ALL in three days. At this point, I'll bitch-slap you if you even so much as breathe on me the wrong way. Missy is not a happy camper when she doesn't get her beauty sleep. I bought some NyQuill in the hopes that it would knock me out last night, but all it did was make me care a lot less about the fact that I wasn't sleeping. At least it was better than the night before last, when I burst into tears at around 3am. Like that's going to help me relax. I can't help it. Every time I close my eyes, I see a rolling credit sequence of all the shit I have to get done this week. And I can't sleep.

Having insomnia allows you to enjoy the benefits of late night TV. Last night I caught a Russ Meyer flick on cable. So many boobies for so few reasons.

hey kitty kitty.

Well, so far I'm doing a STELLAR job at keeping this thing up-to-date, aren't I? Goddamned job.

I'm high on Robaxacet at the moment, because apparently I now suffer from recurring back spasms. So forgive me if I make any typos. Drool.

Today, I floated through a land of cute boys, which was a lovely change from my normal routine. Left Cute New Account Boy (and I do mean boy in this case -- down, girl!) at the office to go see Cute Music House Guys (swoon), then made my way over to Cute Editor's studio. Finally, I ended up at the studio of Cute Animator Guy...not a bad way to spend an afternoon, methinks.

Being in advertising can really suck, but I do find that one working in this business will often happen upon some very nice eye candy while in production. It's one of the few perks of being employed in a soul-sucking wasteland.

I'm sort of pondering a thought regarding the cutest of the cute boys...if a straight guy talks about his cat, are we to assume that he lives with a girl? I don't know too many guys with cats, but perhaps I'm generalizing here.

the final countdown.

It's the finale of The Amazing Race tonight. Hooray! Or, as they say in the UK, Hoorah! I love this show. Although, I will be royally pissed if anyone other than Kris and Jon win tonight. They didn't do such a good job on the casting this year. Every other team annoys the hell out of me. At least those spawns of Satan, Jonathan and Victoria, are out of the picture. They were cringe-worthy.

Lovely moment this weekend, as I returned from the convenience store in my building to discover that the ass of my 10-year-old jogging pants was completely ripped out. Even worse, I was sans underwear. Good thing the creepy guy across the hall got out of the elevator in front of me.

dirty job.

Boy, what a week I've had. Account Guy on The Big Account decided to go on vacation this week, three weeks before The Big Secret Launch, leaving my art director and I essentially in charge. This was a huge mistake on his part (and not just because I'm going to kick his ass when he gets back). We are creative people, not account people -- whiny, irrational, emotional creative people who probably got turned on to this career in the first place after discovering that we sucked at math. Which means that if you leave me to deal with client estimates, you're fucked. Something Account Guy should have thought about before he took off out West to snowboard with his buddies. Jackass. At least I've managed to shoot off a few killer emails to the client -- the likes of which I'm sure they've never seen from Account Guy before. Score one for the lowly copywriter...

I haven't even had time this week to play with my new iPod, which for the two weeks prior to this was becoming sort of a life-consuming hobby. Love that thing. It makes my daily commute feel like a 45-minute music video. Much nicer than listening to the guy crammed in beside me try to work out his morning phlegmball. So far, I've put over 1300 songs on my little iPod -- hoping to get my entire CD collection on it eventually. Besides the embarrasing stuff, of course. Think I'll leave Jon Secada and friends where they belong -- on the bottom shelf of my CD rack, obscured by a stack of photo albums. No one needs to see that.