… …DITZ, YA SAY?

July 26, 2007 at 3:32 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, ditz drivel, the internets

I’ve gotten a number of hits from people googling, yahoo-ing, and msn-ing the word ‘ditz’. Usually, the keywords are something along the lines of what’s is ditz or what a ditz is or what is a ditz?, leading me to believe (judging by the wording, the bad grammar, and the fact that they have to search-engine ‘ditz’ when they could simply go to, like, dictionary.com) that most Americans (and probably a handful of kids from Burundi) don’t have the slightest clue what the term ‘ditz’ means.

Okay, that’s enough.

Unfortuately, dictionary.com offers two boring entries on ‘ditz’. Urban Dictionary (which is a website I try to avoid as much as possible, as its contributors are a bunch of idiots) isn’t being very helpful, either, having twelve definitions written in Moronese. And since there isn’t a Moronese-English option over at Babelfish: g’luck.

It’s getting more and more awkward here at work, ever since I was co-erced into being account muse for the upcoming PSOlympics. Also: doesn’t the whole muse-and-escort thing end in, like, grade school? I generally tend to keep to myself whenever I’m in the office, only talking to people from my department (corporate travel). Now, I have people talking about me RIGHTTOMYFACE at the smoking area and people from ATHOUSANDAISLES away pointing me out to other people. Christ. I’m feeling uglier and uglier by the minute and I’m crossing my fingers that…I don’t know, *they* change their minds? I seriously am not looking forward to prancing around a basketball court in a tacky skimpy outfit to be boo-ed, tittered, and hooted at by people. Or worse, be greeted by silence.

(Not me, please. I have the personality of a block of wood. And I’m fat.)

There are just some things I’d rather not deal with. Things like that kind of bullshit, my insecurities, and a chewed out inner right cheek caused by sucking on too much sugared jelly candies.

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IT’S A CRUSH. BAH.

May 18, 2007 at 9:29 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, camwhorage, technicolor lover

I originally was just planning on Twittering this, but it’s not short enough.

So liek ohmygah, Mr Supervisor held my hand. And it’s been more than four hours since, so I’ve calmed down a bit and the giddy schoolgirl feeling’s faded a little. But. Like. Oh. My. Gah.

As usual, I left work late— an hour after my shift ended. I stuffed all my things into my bag, cleared my desk, banged my head on my keyboard tray thrice (for a dash of drama), mumbled my good-byes to my co-workers, and shuffled past them. Mr Supervisor’s station (where he sits looking all sexy and squeezable) is right at the end of our quadrant, thus totally unavoidable. I smiled at him just as he looked up from his screen, cocked my head (because it’s cute to do so, I suppose) to the side and said my good-bye. He adjusted his headset, pushed his swivel chair back a bit, gently grabbed my left hand with his right hand and went:

…

…

…

“How are you going home?”

Mr Supervisor. Me. Holding hands. And yes, I admit to not being normal, cos I just stood there _holding his hand_ while I replied with a “I’m taking the bus”. Ya know. Just stood there instead of, I don’t know, rushing off to the washroom to lock myself in one of the cubicles so I could proceed to touch all my feminine spots with my left hand? Or something?

HE’S NOT EVEN CUTE!!! He’s just so big and meaty and so…attackable. Someone I can curl up to.

“You take care okay?” He squeezed my hand. I squeezed his hand back. And then slowly. Walked. Away. Like nothing special happened. While discreetly hugging myself.

No intertwining fingers, though. That would’ve been awkward. And creepy. Kinda.

Alsos. I am Kristina’s biggest fan at the moment. I don’t know how she does it, but she found a proxy server that works. For now, at least. So I’m still on the internets, huzzah!

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NO, IT’S NOT *THAT*.

May 17, 2007 at 9:24 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, breaking up the girl

I’m blogging to say that…I won’t be blogging much. Yeah, I’m a stupet. No, actually, I just needed to update because my month-to-date archive’s looking quite dismal. Thing is, I am happily allowing myself to be pwned by work. So I’m not really minding that IT has blocked my website and all proxy servers known to man (I’Z IN UR ‘PUTER!!! SKROOWING WIT UR PROXZIEZ! J0O SNEEKY SNEEKY! ZURF CONTR0WL!), and that the only sites I have access to are Flickr and TMB, and that we are constantly requested to render mandatory overtime (usually asking us to give up our second lunch)— it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

Although I think that if those IT boys only knew how hot I am, it’s possible that we could work something out. Stealz! I asked you ages ago: are they blowjobabble? No? Ok!

Also, this cat has a fever:

And I’m just an obese LOLkitty.

Hiatus schmiatus. I’m renewing this domain for another year (it expires in three days), I just have to find time to go the bank or Globe to make the payment.

I hope to be able to catch my breath, adjust, and be back by next week. Til then, I’ll be busy with work, fending off the subtle advances of a co-worker, clumsily checking out Mr Supervisor, naming random inanimate objects around the house (last week, I named our water pitchers Oscar and Bettita; that same week, Mikey and I agreed to name our first-borne daughter Bettita [I like that name so much. Bettina, too] and our first-borne son Dodgie [nicknamed Bobet by Steel]. I forgot what our pet cat’s name’s going to be, but I know our dog’s Sneakers and our pigeon’s Celso. Or was it Naldy?), and wasting money on bag after bag of colorful bendable straws (it’s funner to snort things with these, don’t you know?). In the meantime, I should get some sleep.

Are you ready, boots? Start walkin’.

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YES, HELGA, YOU _ARE_.

April 25, 2007 at 9:28 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, the helga manual, the internets

I srsly love things that tell me what or who I am. Also, Wordpress is a douchebag (or maybe I’m just an idiot)— it won’t let me directly copy and paste the widget code aka embed the script; but because I love this meme so much, I went ahead and prntscrned all the frames and made my own gif. Awezome.

It’s been years since I last animated anything, so really, is there an option to not optimize gifs when saving? (And why can’t I find that option?) Cos it totally compromises the image quality.

I’m surprised, though, that I fell into the Nice N Cheesy category instead of Touchy Feely. But not rly. I guess it just shows that I’m beginning to differentiate between lust and love, and separate (at least) the ideas of them. If that’s a good thing or not, I have yet to find out.

Second day taking in calls and I swear, I’m gonna pwn this bitch. American business folks booking business trips are easy to talk to— they’re not irate, they’re oddly very grateful, they talk fast, and they’re willing to hold. It’s just the non-talk processes that kill me. My fingers hurt from pounding too hard on the keyboard. Also, I’m starting to refer to the asterisk as ‘display’. And it’s not a 0, it’s a sell.

And that’s it for boring. Honestly, I’m a bit drained. :(

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DISASTER. OH GAWD.

April 23, 2007 at 3:21 pm | Filed under a waste of human capital, camwhorage

Out of boredom, I dyed my hair. The first and last time I ever attempted to do so was a few weeks shy of my 18th birthday; I guess I did a pretty decent job, considering I was only 17 then.

Quick comparison.

I thought it appropriate to take a “Hi my name is Mhe-Annze, I’m from Balara, txtm8z?! EB?!?!” photo. Bah, I know I look fug there, but it’s okai! Cos I’ve got inner beautay! And all that jazz!

ARGH. Look at my eyebrows, look at my hair. So I did what seemed to be the sanest thing to do, up until 5 seconds ago (cos now I have nooo idea how I’m going to rinse it out— dunk my face into a basin of water?): I used the leftover dye on my eyebrows.

Next time, I find time to sit my ass in a salon and have a pro do it. Red highlights, yes. Or totally go Fiona Apple-brown. It’s instances like these that make me feel I’m a waste of kikay estrogen. I can do the dishes, do the laundry, scrub the floor, maybe throw in some ironing (and cooking, definitely cooking. And shoe-shining), and pee perfectly into a bottle. But I cannot, for the life of me, cut my own nails, pluck my own eyebrows, and dye my own hair.

Also, I think this is nervousness I’m feeling: tonight, I get to see what it really is like, being a corporate travel specialist. Ooh boy, after more than two months, I’m back to taking in calls. Also, I’m craving for Kublai’s eat-all-you-can buffet.

Can’t everyday be Sunday?

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