hello, los angeles, care to give me some money? *or* laura takes a new approach to a tried and true salutation.
I went to AppleOne in downtown LA this morning. I had an 8 o'clock appointment. John and I were so worried I'd be late that we got up at 5 AM and got to downtown before 7. We ate breakfast at the Denny's next door to AppleOne.
I had the French toast platter, not the slam. No eggs for me.
Because I felt like I was going to puke.
So I'm sitting in the Denny's in downtown LA in a black skirt and black sweater and black shoes eating French toast and just knowing I'm going to drip syrupy blotches all over myself. But I don't. Instead, I just get more and more nauseous.
The minutes crawl by. I go to the bathroom, positive I'm going to throw-up everything I've eaten since I got to California on my funeral-esque "business attire."
When I don't, I envision myself walking into AppleOne and hurling on the receptionist. Excuse me I have an app--..... Pardon me, I appear to have covered your entire cubicle with vomit. I'll be going now. I'm a social and hygienic embarrassment. Good day to you.
Of course, I didn't puke at all. (Unless you count what had to have been my score on the data-entry test. Not that I actually saw the score. Oh no. They keep it to themselves. If you suck, you already know it.)
Anyway, my constant moving that I love so. much. makes my record instable.
I suppose that's true. And watching the sun come up over Santa Monica Boulevard (actually it was Figueroa, but whatever) is not as fun as Sheryl Crowe led me to believe. In fact, it made my stomach "instable."
We're going out to get applications from retail stores tomorrow. Perhaps that won't make me so nervous.
I had the French toast platter, not the slam. No eggs for me.
Because I felt like I was going to puke.
So I'm sitting in the Denny's in downtown LA in a black skirt and black sweater and black shoes eating French toast and just knowing I'm going to drip syrupy blotches all over myself. But I don't. Instead, I just get more and more nauseous.
The minutes crawl by. I go to the bathroom, positive I'm going to throw-up everything I've eaten since I got to California on my funeral-esque "business attire."
When I don't, I envision myself walking into AppleOne and hurling on the receptionist. Excuse me I have an app--..... Pardon me, I appear to have covered your entire cubicle with vomit. I'll be going now. I'm a social and hygienic embarrassment. Good day to you.
Of course, I didn't puke at all. (Unless you count what had to have been my score on the data-entry test. Not that I actually saw the score. Oh no. They keep it to themselves. If you suck, you already know it.)
Anyway, my constant moving that I love so. much. makes my record instable.
I suppose that's true. And watching the sun come up over Santa Monica Boulevard (actually it was Figueroa, but whatever) is not as fun as Sheryl Crowe led me to believe. In fact, it made my stomach "instable."
We're going out to get applications from retail stores tomorrow. Perhaps that won't make me so nervous.
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