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Falling out of reach
Apr. 6th, 2008 01:05 pmHow does one properly prepare to pay their taxes? Makeup and a sassy attitude. Well, I've got the makeup, anyway. Not sure I'm quite up to sass, unless you mean "don't back-sass!" in which I am ever ready.
In my defense, I filled out all my federal stuff months ago. But I was waiting for my state to come in cuz I owe the government a smidge, what with Walgreens having put the wrong number somewhere, and me never having fixed it. Which we go through every year. It's cool, although my state was a little disappointing this go round. *pout*
Totally random, but my nose? Is perfect. I know, I know, it's superficial and completely up to someone's personal opinion, but given my genetic choices, I lucked the fuck out in that regard. I suppose something had to go in the positive department [well, along with the hair and the lips] to balance out the hips of doom and the fact that I'm in no way photogenic. I was thinking about the nose as I sneezed for five minutes straight. Uncool.
Hmm. Work was work, nothing exciting to write home about there. I suppose that's a good thing, as exciting generally means police were called. Oh! That reminds me. Apparently there was a shooting Friday/Saturday. It was a bit disconcerting to have our backup guard [she had to be called in when someone just never showed] ran out the door, talking about a double shooting. Cuz, y'know, that makes ME feel warm and safe, right?
This is one of my least favorite weekends out of the year. I loathe the Cooper River Bridge Run. As it is, you've got enough horrible tourists realizing that Charleston is pretty much out of it's winter, and right into it's schizophrenic spring, which is to say one day you'll freeze [if you're local. If you're from someplace legitimately cold, you'll find it a refreshing change from your arctic tundra] and the next day you might have to seriously worry about dying from heat stroke. Good times. Anyway, tourists descend anyway, hoping for the pretty, pretty flowers. Enter the Flower Town Festival in Summerville. Which I went to one year, and yeah, tis awesome. But tourists! Bad. Um, anyway, the bridge run brings out all the athletic freaks. That's right! Anyone willing to RUN across a bridge at the asscrack of dawn with thousands of other people is a freak. Not that you can run, unless you're right up front, because there are just that many people. I suspect if you time it right, in the middle of the pack you can just let the people behind you sort of push you along, letting them do all the work. I have no desire to see how true this is, though, so don't look for me trying to put this to practical use anytime soon.
Yes. I'm one of those people. Tourists? I loathe. In small [and I do mean small] groups or one on one, they're okay. But I get tired of trying to give directions [I'm doing well when I can direct someone to the beach and that's a straight-frickin'-shot] or trying to figure out which local site they're butchering the name of now. In their defense, yeah, some of these places have seriously funky names. But the next jackass who says Foley and not Folly is getting a golf club to the kneecap. You can pronounce Kiawah, but Folly trips you up? How. Is. That. Possible?
So, do yourselves a favor. If you don't live here, but come to visit, avoid the bridge run. Unless you like the running of the Kenyans. Then go right ahead, but don't come crying to me at 6am looking for safety pins.
In my defense, I filled out all my federal stuff months ago. But I was waiting for my state to come in cuz I owe the government a smidge, what with Walgreens having put the wrong number somewhere, and me never having fixed it. Which we go through every year. It's cool, although my state was a little disappointing this go round. *pout*
Totally random, but my nose? Is perfect. I know, I know, it's superficial and completely up to someone's personal opinion, but given my genetic choices, I lucked the fuck out in that regard. I suppose something had to go in the positive department [well, along with the hair and the lips] to balance out the hips of doom and the fact that I'm in no way photogenic. I was thinking about the nose as I sneezed for five minutes straight. Uncool.
Hmm. Work was work, nothing exciting to write home about there. I suppose that's a good thing, as exciting generally means police were called. Oh! That reminds me. Apparently there was a shooting Friday/Saturday. It was a bit disconcerting to have our backup guard [she had to be called in when someone just never showed] ran out the door, talking about a double shooting. Cuz, y'know, that makes ME feel warm and safe, right?
This is one of my least favorite weekends out of the year. I loathe the Cooper River Bridge Run. As it is, you've got enough horrible tourists realizing that Charleston is pretty much out of it's winter, and right into it's schizophrenic spring, which is to say one day you'll freeze [if you're local. If you're from someplace legitimately cold, you'll find it a refreshing change from your arctic tundra] and the next day you might have to seriously worry about dying from heat stroke. Good times. Anyway, tourists descend anyway, hoping for the pretty, pretty flowers. Enter the Flower Town Festival in Summerville. Which I went to one year, and yeah, tis awesome. But tourists! Bad. Um, anyway, the bridge run brings out all the athletic freaks. That's right! Anyone willing to RUN across a bridge at the asscrack of dawn with thousands of other people is a freak. Not that you can run, unless you're right up front, because there are just that many people. I suspect if you time it right, in the middle of the pack you can just let the people behind you sort of push you along, letting them do all the work. I have no desire to see how true this is, though, so don't look for me trying to put this to practical use anytime soon.
Yes. I'm one of those people. Tourists? I loathe. In small [and I do mean small] groups or one on one, they're okay. But I get tired of trying to give directions [I'm doing well when I can direct someone to the beach and that's a straight-frickin'-shot] or trying to figure out which local site they're butchering the name of now. In their defense, yeah, some of these places have seriously funky names. But the next jackass who says Foley and not Folly is getting a golf club to the kneecap. You can pronounce Kiawah, but Folly trips you up? How. Is. That. Possible?
So, do yourselves a favor. If you don't live here, but come to visit, avoid the bridge run. Unless you like the running of the Kenyans. Then go right ahead, but don't come crying to me at 6am looking for safety pins.