Good Story.

I'm glad there's only 45 more minutes left in this day. Could it have been anymore shittier? (I'm sure it could've, but allow me for this one time to digress.)

I started the day off by going to pay my very first parking ticket. Good story.

The other night I thought it'd be fun to visit a friend I hadn't seen in a long time. This friend at some point over the duration of our friendship became a sort of "cuddle buddy," if you will. So I park my car on the street and meet him at the door. We hugged for awhile and it was nice. It was a long time since I was in those arms. We hung around for awhile, watched a movie (that I slept through) and yadda yadda yadda... (you all know what those yadda's mean, don't make me explain. I might get TOS'd.) And halfway through we decided, well, maybe we've outgrown this and...*gasp* just be friends. Fine by me. We fell asleep for a little while and when I awoke it was almost daylight. So I searched in the dark for my clothes, put on my shoes and said goodbye before I left. And as I walked to my car, I noticed a little white envelope blowing in the early morning air.

I didn't even open it.

It's like I was being summoned for wanting to get laid.

But wait---it gets better!

When I did open it the next day, I noticed it said "Personal Appearance Required." Great. I remember wondering if I could pay my Old Navy bill there, too.

The court was in the town I parked illegally in. And I didn't know where it was. So I called Tracy, seeing as how she lives there and all, to come find it with me. Wouldn't you know...as we drove there, it all looked really familiar...I think the conversation went a little like this:

Tracy: Take the right before the light.

Me: Why? That's the street I was parked on...how'd you know?

Tracy: Because that's the courthouse.

Both: (dumbfounded silence)

Tracy: You parked after 2 a.m. in front of the courthouse? Why didn't you just get on your knees and beg for a parking ticket?

Me: I can't believe I'm paying $20 for could've been sex.

It's like I'm paying for a layaway lay.

So I go in and I pay. End of story.

We go to lunch before finishing my errands. I give her the keys to my car because I am utterly exhausted of driving. I hate it. So she's driving me in my car to go pick up my dry cleaning. Good story.

I went shopping last Saturday (as if I didn't shop enough on my vacation) and mosied my darling little self into the Gap. Don't know if it's happening in a Gap near you, but there was a GINORMOUS clearance rack that I raped and pillaged. I picked out this fabulous dress and proceeded to bring that, amongst other heaven sent marked down items, into the dressing room. First things first, I strip down to my skiv skivs and slide the dress over my head. Just as I'm looking around for a zipper or some other gadget that will fasten in order to cover my breasts, I notice a tag that reads "Damaged Merchandise: Extra 40% off!"

Me: (thinking to myself) What the hell is damaged?

I find the zipper. I zip it up. I do a little twirl. I fall in love.

I reread the tag. "Damaged Zipper."

Me: *scoff*! No it's not! It zipped fine!

I try to unzip it. It will not unzip. I tug and pull and begin to panic. I flip my head over and reach my arms out and try to pull it over my head. Still stuck.

By now I'm turning red and getting really hot. If only I had my cellphone...I would've called Fashion Emergency.

By some grace of an unseen outside force, I got myself unstuck. I let out a relieved sigh. And a pout because I knew that that was the only dress they had left in my size. I did some mental math a figured that the dress was on sale for $29.99 from $72.50. Plus the extra 40% off would make it like $18.00-ish. And that I could always take it to the cleaners to get the zipper fixed. So I bought it.

I bring it to the cleaners and proceed to have small talk with the owner while I was in line. "Just curious," he asks, "what do you have there?"

Giddy to show off my new dress I rip it out of the bag and put it up to me and twirl. "Isn't it fabulous? I got it like a million percent off!"

"Are you getting it cleaned?"

"No, it actually has a broken zipper...see, that's how I got so much off for it."

"I hate to tell you this, but you'll probably be paying alot for the zipper."

"Like how much?"

"$30."

So I essentially was paying more than the original sale price for the stupid dress, which, oddly enough, I didn't think was so pretty anymore.

On the way home we saw an ice cream truck. On the side it read, "Huff Ice Cream." So I did.

I dropped her off and went to work for my second day as Front End Supervisor, which is alot better than being the Rear End Supervisor, no?

My duties as FES:

- I get keys.

- I can initial my name in the FES spots on paperwork.

- I can do returns.

- I can take shit from relentlessly crabby customers.

- I have to close registers.

- I have to print reports.

- I have to clean the 5 rows of floral, which are always a disaster. While watching register to make sure I have no customers.

- I have to make the closing announcements.

Doesn't seem too bad, right? Wrong. What I didn't know about this shady promotion was A.) I cannot leave up front. B.) It's nearly impossible to finish floral since there is always one lingering customer being indecisive over which piece of candy she wants to clog her artery, C.) I hate using the P.A.

So three times a night, I have to announce:

"Attention Michaels shoppers, the time is now (8:45, 8:50, 8:55)and we will be closing in (15, 10, 5) minutes. Please make your final selection and bring it up front where registers (even though there's only one) are still available. We will reopen tomorrow morning for your shopping convenience and as always, thank you for shopping at Michaels."

This is where I'd usually type *slits wrists* but since I have no health insurance anymore, I can't be tinkering around with a little idea called suicide.

So after work, my frustrations began getting the best of me and as I pushed away tears, I drove to Tracy's work, sniffling and feeling ultra self pity. I even brought a date so I wouldn't have to sit alone. Meet Billy Fucillo. I doubt you non-New Yorkers know of the wonder that is Billy Fucillo. He's a C-list car dealer in the area who finds it inherently necessary to advertise during every type of show on every different network. He even has his own catch phrase. A big ol' obnoxious IT'S YUUUUUUUGE! So yeah, anyway, he was my date. Pathetic, huh?

So I get there and find Tracy and proceed to be a total girl (which I hate) about everything.

Tracy: What's wrong?

Me: ...Nothing.

Enter: Tears.

I get up and leave and walk out to my car where I cry for the next half hour.

I cried because I hate my job that I used to love.

I cried because I have no degree.

I cried because Erin is moving and Tracy is leaving and Stephanie is never coming back.

I cried because the f-ing cheese stands alone.

I cried because every girl I know can find a million guys to date her and I can't even find one.

I cried because a boy in the resteraunt reminded me of someone whose memory haunts me.

I cried because I can't move to Rochester to work in the thrift store, because I have no car and no roommate and no money.

I cried because I can't blame crying on the PMS I had a week and a half ago.

I cried because Switzerland isn't outside of my door.

I hate being a girl sometimes. I hate being so emotional and at times feeling utterly helpless. If someone were to jump out and attack me what the hell would I do? I certainly can't defend myself, unless of course, I am armed with a pair of spiked heels. But in those rare scenarios when I'm not, I'm totally useless.

I feel totally stuck, though a different stuck from the day in the dressing room at the Gap. This is a bigger stuck.

At least it's a new day.