Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Wednesday, Apr. 21, 2004 - 3:54 a.m.

You know, I really should be in bed. I'm very, very tired, and there are Things Which Must Be Mailed on the morrow, which will necessitate a very looooooooong stand in line, and before I do that, I will have to go shopping, because I am missing one or two Things Which Must Be Mailed. Mostly on account of I have to mail things to many people, because I have been procrastinating the mailing of Things Which Must Be Mailed for a very long time now, on account of the fact that all the post offices anywhere near my house all have very looooooooong lines every single hour of every single day, and frankly, it is very, very difficult to manage fitting a visit to the post office and a very long stand in line into one's work day. All Hail, St. Katie.

So anyway, I am very, very tired, but the piano is currently being tuned, so sleep is not actually an option at this time, much as I would like it to be.

Um, Katie?
Yes?
Um, I realize this may be a ridiculous question, but why is your piano being tuned at 3:54am?
Why, because that is when the piano tuner could make it, silly; why else?

See, when one lives with a night owl who has night owl friends, one must expect things like Pianos Being Tuned at 3:54AM. That's just how it is. Especially when one usually works in the evening and doesn't get out of bed until 1:30p on a normal day, anyway. Forget the fact that one has been trying to gradually work around to a more normal sort of day shift where one wakes up closer to 10 or 11a than 1:30p. No, pianos must be tuned, and apparently, they must be tuned at 3:54am on a Tuesday night. ::sigh::

Actually, the tuner showed up at 12. But since this is the first piano the tuner has ever tuned (don't go there), the tuning is still going on. I must say, it sounds very well-tuned. But it sounds very well-tuned at 3:54am. Need I say more?

I thought not.

Hey, know what? The vile, reprehensible, disgusting pig of a prick of an ugly, useless little asswipe of a fake human being I am currently spending my days logging is just about done. Friday is my last day of work. This would truly be worth rejoicing about, had I another job to start, but so far my attempts at landing said work have met with no actual work. I wouldn't mind having a week or two off, but 6 weeks is a tad too long to go sans income, in my humble opinion. But I am relishing the thought of not having to deal ever, ever again with the useless waste of air I'm logging. Except in my fantasies, where I run into him in public and get to throw the drink I am holding - the very full, very cold, very WET drink - into his face and tell him what a pathetic fucking loser I think he is. I love those fantasies. They have gotten me thru the last few weeks of logging this asshole. Well, those, and the # of times counts I put at the bottom of every log: the # of times ***** says bud row, the # of times ***** says baby/babygirl/babydoll, the # of times ***** says sweetie, the # of times ***** refers to himself as the ******er or the ***** man. And the granddaddy of all counts, the # of times ***** says truth/truthfully or honest/honestly, since every single time he tells a girl a lie, he prefaces it with one of those words. When I worked on a certain wedding show, I did the same thing with the female "star" of that show, only it was the # of times she shrieked, babytalked, cackled, and screeched awesome. There were quite a few of those. My logs were the toast of the town. Or, you know, the people who worked for my company who hated this bitch as much as I did. Which was a lot, because she was pretty well universally hated. But the snarkiness of my logs on that project were nothing compared to the snark I dished on this project. At first I worried I was gonna get in trouble, especially considering the number of times the word fuck - or one of its permutations - was employed. But after roughly 2 weeks of dealing with this useless piece of crap, all caution flew out the window, and the bile flowed freely. And you know what? I do not care and am not sorry. In the slightest. But I am happy it's almost over. And should you be out in the Los Angeles/Hollywood bar scene and run into a crappy little 26 year old freak of a kid with a gigantically huge schnozz, NO upper lip to speak of, and the crappiest looking reddish brown hair you have EVER seen in your entire life, and he's hitting on you or your friend, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE throw a drink in his face for me. I will love you forever.

Peace out,
Katie

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In which Katie shares sad news - Wednesday, Apr. 01, 2015
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In which Katie pokes her head in and brushes some of the cobwebs away - Thursday, May. 06, 2010
In which Katie asks you to write your congressman again. - Monday, Jun. 02, 2008
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