This week on Conversations with Cleverbot: cold-hearted Cleverbot takes away something that is very dear to me.
On Friday I told you about the first time I saw Lola, busty queen of gold lamé. I ended that story where I did because Lola’s triumphant last word always brings a smile to my face. But none of us are saints, least of all Lola, and as things turned out I was only to see her colorful flair grace my checkout a handful of times before it would be the last time.
It’s been a long fucking week. We have a new upstairs neighbor who likes loud music with a lot of bass tones and doesn’t understand the concept of apartment building “quiet hours”. My back has more knots in it than a macrame hammock and every muscle is on full red alert, so naturally every single document I’ve needed today has been tucked away in the 2 ton bottom drawer of my filing cabinet that requires the strength of an Olympic weight lifter to open. And to top things off, earlier this morning I unwittingly commented on a friend’s Facebook status only for it to turn out to be some stupid chain letter trap which I refuse to help propagate. If that makes me a humorless bitch, then fuck it, I guess I’m a humorless bitch.
Basically I’m just pissed off about everything in particular, and while I’d love to go on a big long rant about it, I’m pretty sure the sheer magnitude of the resulting written rage would melt the faces off everyone in a ten mile radius. And nobody wants that.
So instead I’m going to cheer myself up by telling another tale from my cashier days. This is the story of Lola.
Current subject lines in my Gmail spam folder:
Fw: S A F..E-_&_ F-A-S_T..– P..E_N..I..S-__-E_N_L A R-G_E-M..E-N T
P E-N_I S ___E N L A-R G..E M..E N T_-..P_I_L L S,
S_A_F-E _&.._F A..S-T—..P..E N..I..S __ E..N-L_A R..G..E_M..E_N T!
Golly, how did my spam filter ever catch these?
So recently I did my biennial womanly duty and went in to have my doctor check my unmentionables for cervical cancer and trolls and loose change or whatever else it is they look for up there.
I don’t bother checking Facebook on Fridays anymore. I know what I’m going to see. Ten billion pictures, videos and posts all with the same message: TGIF.
Yeah, no. I’m not fucking thanking anybody that it’s Friday. Friday can kiss my ass.
So my friend is getting married next weekend, and the bachelorette party was Saturday. I was a bit worried about going since I’ve been on the thyroid roller coaster from hell recently, but I figured even if my stupid thyroid didn’t behave itself, it was a long weekend and I’d have two full days to recover. So I went, and by some miracle my body decided to be nice to me for once, quite possibly because I was plying it with booze, and I’m glad because I would have missed an amazing shindig otherwise. We ate delicious Mexican food, we drank our weight in alcohol through penis-shaped straws (which I understand are now mandatory at all modern stagettes), and we danced until our feet cried out for mercy.
And any and all conversation remained firmly planted in the gutter, where it belonged.