Funny, I checked the weather this morning and it didn't say anything about a shit storm.

I haven't written in over two weeks, and let me tell ya, a TON has happened.

I celebrated St Patty's Day with some friends and let a drunk 85 year old guy dance with me. I thought I heard angels singing when he approached...it was a magical experience.

I started my new job. Not one person has so much as alluded to grabbing their crotch, and that alone makes me the happiest worker in the world. I even put up one of my favorite quotes: "I don't believe in animal testing; they get all nervous and give the wrong answers." Glorious. I'm officially settled in.

I even found the time to squeeze in a moderate fall-out with my parents. I'll spare you the gory details, but at one point my father pulled the, "You're not going to talk to me like that under MY roof!" Right about then the mature part of the fight started, and I stomped off to my old bedroom/new home office to pack my bags. My mom followed me and said, "Don't go home." I responded with, "That's bullshit. You know, I'M a homeowner too! And I'm going home." The logic was, I was going to drive 2 hours home, then call my father up and continue to tell him what I've been feeling for the past 20 years, all while under MY roof. HA! It was the ultimate technicality!

No one ever said I was smart. My lack of coordination might actually be a reflection of my limited mental ability.

My talents are limited, and they are diminishing at a fast rate. I forgot how to walk, twice, last weekend. I almost pulled a Natasha Richardson in the livingroom (too soon?).

I can't wear white. I can't walk with hot liquids. I don't even attempt running with scissors. I smashed my ear off the corner of the wall about a week ago and I swear my hearing has been negatively affected.

Oh, and holding the elevator door? Hardly. First...I judge. Chubby? You should be taking the stairs. Thin? I don't like you on principle. Suit? It's time YOU waited for a change. Jeans? You obviously don't work here and that automatically makes you the office-elevator-rapist in my near-sighted eyes. Someone who has held the door open for ME in the past? Sorry, you need to learn that life isn't always fair.

I never said I wasn't a jerk.

My IQ has dropped at least 100 points in the past 30 minutes and continues to drop...

I am watching "Keeping Up With the Kardashians." I didn't intentionally seek them out; I turned the TV on and POOF! There they were. I've been sucked in. I'm only familiar with Kim, the prettiest out of all the sisters and the amateur porn star. To my surprise, there's a token chubby sister that I think the producers are paying to over eat... You can't have a show filled with only beautiful sisters. Ya gotta have a chubby one to throw some angst into the mix. But the biggest surprise was that there a MOM! In true reality-TV show form she mentioned during this episode that she can't think of a better place to raise her daughters than Los Angeles. She also thinks being a 'good mom' means booking a 3 page, half-nude magazine spread in Maxim magazine for her second oldest daughter.

Then some random son pops up (didn't realize there was a boy Kardashian). He doesn't realize he's gay and he moves in with his girlfriend. At one point he freaks out about how dirty the apartment is. The girlfriend says, "I just cleaned!" He responds with, "Well you didn't cleaned it good enough!" No typos, folks. That's what he said and dammit, he meant it.

It's a shame. No one on the show is particularly smart. I'd say they're a special kind of stupid, the kind that makes you stupid, too, just by watching. But they are all gorgeous...the guys, the gals, the chubby one (and really, she's not chubby by civilian standards).

In this country if you're gorgeous and born into money, chances are you'll get your own TV show, even if you have nothing to say. And for the rest of us suckers who have to work for a living, we sign up on a free blog site and hope people read it.

I'd say it was unfair, but I don't care that much.

“And that’s the way it is.” – Walter Cronkite

Today is my last day at Liberty Mutual. Only 3 people (out of 60) know that I’m leaving. Ball Grabber is not one of those 3. He’s on a need-to-know basis, and right now, he doesn’t need to know anything.

I start the new job on Monday. I’m not really sure what to think. I am still in denial about actually getting a fresh start at a new place. I can’t believe I’m finally getting out of here! (Actually, just typing that right now gave me a chill…I think the excitement is creeping up on me! Either that or I caught the bug that’s going around…)

I guess I should figure out a game plan for my new company. Maybe I should treat it like prison and stab a guy on my first day. Then I’ll have earned the respect of my peers from the start.

If nothing else, I definitely need to buy new pants. I’ve lost 11.5 lbs since last October. (exercise, people!) My work pants are literally falling off at this point. The last thing I need to do is moon my new coworkers. While I’m sure that could get me a few lunch invitations, if it happens to be a day when I’m wearing my “donut underwear” (with the word SWEET on the ass), no one will take me seriously ever again.

I was also thinking about stealing some office supplies before I left, but I guess I can wait and steal them from the new place. Besides, these cheap Staples-brand pens that Liberty orders don’t write for shit. Although, the building management that houses us buys some really nice toilet paper. I might help myself to some o’ that on my way out. Maybe even grab a handful of tampons for good measure.

It’s funny how certain things can trigger memories. I remember going sky diving two years ago. I went tandem and the instructor who got strapped to my back casually mentioned (as we sat on the plane, headed to our 14,000 ft drop) that that particular day was his last day of work.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve been a total screw-off these last two weeks. I don’t care about anything and I’ve been doing just as much work as needed to not piss off my manager. Basically, I’ve been phoning it in.

So there I am, sitting in a plane with a guy on his last day on the job strapped to my back, and pretty soon we’re in the open doorway of a perfectly good airplane. He yells over the rumble of the engines, “On the count of three, we’re jumping!” I’m thinking, “This was such a bad idea on so many levels.”

“ONE!” Ohmygod, I am not ready for this.

“TWO!” I yell back, “I-DON’T-WANNA-DO-THIS!”

“THREE!” And we take the plunge. I guess he didn't hear me.

I didn’t close my eyes. I paid $200 to endanger myself like this, and besides, closing my eyes wasn’t going to make me any safer.

Obviously, you know it ended well. I survived and gave my tandem guy the biggest hug in the world and thanked him profusely for keeping me alive. Sure it was probably inappropriate, but somehow a simple handshake didn’t seem like enough.

And so people, the moral of today’s blog is this: You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away and know when to run.

You have ONE birthday. There's no way your mother would've pushed you through her vagina twice.

I don't even know what that means, but I thought it was funny so I went with it.

I just had a clandestine 'cocktail' lunch with a fellow coworker who is also leaving this God foresaken place next week. No one in the office knows we're each leaving (except for us). We went to an out-of-the-way bar/restaurant. 90 minutes and a little too much alcohol (and not enough food) later, we pour ourselves back into the office. Now I've got two choices: Send out a proposal for a $600,000 account, or chill and write a blog. The fact that you're reading this means I have chosen....wisely.

I make my mom proud.

I'm chugging water like it's my job. Considering everything I haven't been doing in the office lately, I guess you could say that's a fairly accurate remark.

I also just realized I smell like I've been manning the fryer at the Grease Shack Diner for the past 12 hours. I smell like ass. No, I smell worse than ass. I smell like deep-fried ass. I've got enough Long Island Iced Tea in me (with an extra shot of tequila for good measure) to not really care. For all you people in AA right now: You don't know what you're missing! Actually, wait. You do. Sorry.

A coworker just asked me a question. I asked for "one minute" so I could finish reading an article about Chris Brown being charged with two felonies.

I checked in with my lunch buddy. She's over there heckling the people in her department. She's also thinking she can cover up her grease/alcohol stank with a dirty, half-unwrapped cough drop that she found in the bottom of her purse.

I'm just laying low at my desk. I'm wearing high-heels; it's best if I don't walk around too much. I normally would sneak out early; not today. This moment is not the time to take chances.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not retardedly drunk. I'm pleasantly buzzed. I want to set the record straight on that.

Needless to say, lunch was a success. Our 45 year old hippie bartender was a cool chick, albeit a little burned out. But I had no complaints, even when I didn't get my side of mayo. Why is it so impossible to get a side of mayo with anything? Food industry savages. Bunch of communists. I digress.

So yeah, if you ever want a free shot of tequila, just hit Dylan's in Chesterbrook at lunch time. Make sure Fantasia is the bartender (not her exact name, but I know it's close). You'll be set. Bonus points if you can get her to spill about how she got mugged and beat up in D.C.

My next blog will probably be a personal review of the new Watchmen movie. Stay tuned.

My next blog will also be a little more...coherent. Thanks for tuning in.

Be careful who you watch episodic TV with...

It all started with one statement: I think we're growing apart.

Well sure we are. I mean, we don't see each other. You seem to live at one of the world and I'm at the other. But we could work on that. We can make a better effort to call, to email, to do ANYTHING.

But alas, it was not meant to be. With one final, "I don't think we should talk anymore...ever," it was over. I mean, come on. That statement was ended with an "ever." That's pretty definitive. There's no turning back on that one.

Yes people, it is over: Last night, I was dumped by a friend (see Bumblebee below). It doesn't even make sense. How can I be the dumped one? She's the one who sucks! She even started the whole discussion. Growing apart? Yup (I agreed). Neither of us is making an effort? Yup again. And then BAM, I get dumped.

She's got Triple X Syndrome (Google that shit). On a biological level, that makes her retarded. On a societal level, she's practically Corky without the TV show and cool dog. Doesn't she know who I am? Doesn't she realize that she should be so lucky as to be friends with me? Doesn't she know how GOOD I make her look?

This probably wouldn't have blown my mind so much if she had other friends, but she doesn't. It's not like she can be choosy, even if she thinks I am an asshole. I guess the caveat to this situation is that she just started dating a new guy (who is probably equally retarded), so they'll be spending lots of time together.

I could kick myself. Why didn't I dump her first? This just makes me look bad, and I don't need any help with that; I do very well on my own, thank you. Aside from my own moments of stupidity that puts "The Hills" girls into faux Mensa status, I'm clumsy and I laugh too often at my own jokes.

It's disgusting. I've been dumped by a chick whose email address is dreamwell@blahblahblah.com.

Dreamwell?? That's so hella lame. That's even more lame than me writing hella lame.

(and yes, I think Phelps looks retarded)

I can't even quit my job the right way!

Yes, it's true. I convinced another insurance company to hire me. As I had noted in a past blog when starting a new job: "Looks like I'll be over-estimating my accomplishments again this year." Basically, I'm not qualified to do 100% of the workload at this new place. But you know what? I'm not overly concerned, because you can train a monkey to do my job. Of course, you also run the risk of said monkey freaking out one day and ripping your friend's face off, only to be shot and killed by police. It's another reason I hate monkeys.

What?

So back to this bullshit about trying to quit my job. I'm going to a competing company. I really thought when I gave notice yesterday, I'd be sent home on the spot (that's usually how this Corporate America crap works). Boy, did I miscalculate. I'm into Day 2 of my last two weeks of work. I emailed my HR guy today and asked him if my new employer was considered a competitor. His response (and I quote): "I guess not..." Yeah? I guess you're also an idiot.

So here I am, stuck working with Creepy Ball-Grabber guy, counting down the minutes until I can get out of here. We had a snow storm yesterday and he got in late. I took the opportunity to take a picture of the creepy-ass sticker on his office phone (which you can see here). What a weirdo. No doubt he will wear my skin if given the opportunity.

I haven't told anyone in my office that I'm leaving. I have no plans to, either. It's not like I made friends while I've been here. This is what I work with:

Debi: You live with 13 dogs and I've seen you in the ladies room: You don't wash your hands. It's called soap. Don't touch me.

Tom: It's been all about you and your balls. I hope you pay too much money for a diseased hooker in Atantic City and catch some rare, nasty STD that nuclear warheads can't destroy.

Linda: You're 70 years old. I should smack you for having Sponge Bob Squarepants figurines on your desk. You eat lunch at the free food-tasting tables in grocery stores. It's triple coupon day. Go.

Courtney: You're morbidly obese. You're a liar. Let me tell you a few things: You don't have a husband, you don't have friends and you never had a pet lobster. Lose some weight and go to counseling. And no, I will not go to Five Guys with you for lunch.

Yes, I'm sure these feelings are mutual and the thing is, I don't even care. For the past year I've come to work every day, sat in a cube and worked for 8 hours. When I did try reaching out to my coworkers in the first few months, I couldn't help but notice they were either not interested, burned out, busy grabbing their junk or at least 30 years older than me.

My "Office Space" workdays are soon to be over. I hope I can last that long.