Dirtbag

At the corner in front of the hardware store, waiting for my sister to meet me. Little duder comes up, grabs a 10 lb bag of potting soil, looks at me all shifty and books it down the street. I step around the corner to watch him, I want to make sure I just sawed what I just seed. He's doing the "What? Steal? Me?" perp walk and tucking his iPod earbuds into his tiny little ears. Fucking dick. You have enough money for a $250 dollar listening device but you can't pay $6.99 for a bag of dirt? If you were stealing food I could at least rationalize that you were hungry or homeless maybe. A DVD and I could pretend you were a junkie who was going to resell or return it for dope money. But DIRT? No one needs to steal dirt. The family that owns that store is nice. They have an 18 year old son that flirts with me when he makes my keys. WILL I GET THAT KIND OF SERVICE AT HOME DEPOT? I don't think so. But that's all I have if you keep it up. I hope your geraniums grow so tall they block your space heater and you die of carbon monoxide poisoning in your sleep.

TC fucking B on the 1040 EZ

"I just felt the spirit move through me."

Not a phrase that inspires trust from a tax preparer, especially when it's followed by,

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

and quashes any hopes you might have that she's a nice, normal holy roller.

Josie is three-quarters of the way through my return and my heart is going faster than a hummingbird on Sudafed.

Watching the screens on her H&R Block tax software go flying by is like watching a roulette wheel. Come on. Come on. Come on. Low for fed and state. Low for fed and state. Blow on the keyboard for me. COME ON!

Josie is not as focused as I'd like. She keeps breaking stride to chat with coworkers about parking spaces, Eric the trainee and birthday cake.

I understand how frosting can improve a Friday and I don't have a car but I vaguely remember the complexities of parking but this Eric business has got to cease.

Several times now she's said stuff like "Yo Eric! You in trouble!" and "Eric, you know you doing this wrong!" and each time I think she's addressing me. No Josie, I'm going to kill you and write it off as a medical expense. The knife and rope will go under "Supplies" right alongside the Ativan on my receipts.

My tax system sucks, I guess that's why I was so worried. Freelancers are supposed to file quarterly but I'm too lazy so I pay the fine because it's not that big and have Josie do it all at the end of the year. I throw some of my earnings into savings but it's never a set amount and not based on any real figure. I figure good enough for our government, good enough for me.

I ended up getting a little back from federal and state and I have no fucking idea as to how that happened except but for the grace of Josie. She's a little crackertime but the woman's got her ways.

I walked out of the office feeling like motherfucking SCARFACE. Bulletproof. Invincible.

"Choo wanna audit me? Choo wanna waste my time? OK. I call my accountant. She the best accountant in NYC. She is such a good accountant, that by tomorrow, choo gonna be auditing in Alaska. So dress warm."

hellogoodafternoonthisisme

People in the hood are going to start wearing leather jackets that say "JOSIE" and "Don't Knock da Block" in big airbrushed letters. I'm also working on a tribute song with this guy who knows this guy who used to know Biggie.

Wrong, Wrong or Wrong?

Coming up with a "Marry, Fuck or Kill" for work tomorrow. Really wish I could do the Jolie orphans because I would SO fuck Maddox with his fine little punk rock self. Zahara I will marry because she seems docile and Shiloh can die cause she's the only natural one and the little crumbsnatcher will surely lord it over the others. Pax is too new to qualify.

When in Doubt, Pick C

Writing an online poll for a client. It always amazes me how many people click on those fucking things. No self esteem.

The one I'm writing is for Mother's Day. The client wants the question to be something like "What are you getting your mom for Mother's Day?" and I have to provide 5 options, each of which will somehow relate to something the client is selling.

I really want one of them to be "My mom is dead!" but I don't think they'll go for it. They don't make a Kodak coffin.

Hooray for Hollywood

Working on script revisions from the producer folks. Still have a lot more to get through but here's my favorite so far:

Before
EMILY: I don't want to hang out. I want to kiss. Makeout. Hump.

After
EMILY: I don't want to hang out. I want to kiss. Makeout. Dry hump.

God I'm Fucking Stupid

I was on the Apple site last night, seriously considering buying a new iPod. My old one died of abuse (never keeping it in a case, getting water/sweat on it while running, being dropped several times) and neglect (constantly forgetting I own an iPod, never organizing my iTunes library, only using 1,000 out of a capacity of 10,000 possible songs because i'm too lazy to transfer my CD collection). Actually, I don't even know if it's fully dead. There's an icon that looks like a folder and a whirring noise. I doubt that's good. It's been that way for over 7 months but I can't get my pathetic white ass to the Apple Store. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? I'M A FUCKING FREELANCER. I CAN GO WHENEVER I WANT.

I don't even need an iPod really. What I need is a small, indestructible device that holds about 20 songs by eminem and 50 cent, which is all I ever listened to on the old one. That and a few sad mopey songs when I'm on the train and some boyfriend is being a dick.

50 looks hot in this picture. It's the first picture I've seen of 50 where I've been like 'yea, I'd fuck him'. All the others he looks like a Chinese bunny suffering from a chemical burn.

Yes, Hotmail. He Should.

This graphic showed up next to my email. I think it was last night.