Sour Grapes

While scouring through the inventories of 3 different stores for cheap dining chairs for this weasely guy, and pointing out something for a newbie associate, the phone rings for me. It's a woman from The Big House in H.R. She's called to inform me that even though "you did nothing wrong" I didn't land the photography department data entry job.

I found myself weirdly unfazed at this information. Later, a coworker said I sounded quite professional and cordial on the phone (while juggling inventory computer and soothing whiny weasel guy). And (pardon me if I sound all New Age-y or Align You Chakras Flaky) that lack of bummed-outness leads me to believe (or pretend to believe) I didn't really want the job. Shitty early hours, no benefits, and double the commute time must not have outweighed the (presumably) better pay.

So Be It!
Wasn't meant to be...
Sour Grapes...

Back to the want ads, intra-office postings, and such.

As I typed this post, I looked up into one of My Cube's corners and saw a little flock of Somethings dancing hopping skipping giving me six to eight fingers in a web. Right above my computer. I quickly covered my monitor of my Gonzo II with a T-shirt (It's all in your mind/ Halloween '91/ Athens Ohio backside: You are what you eat [enter giant mushroom and electric wizard]), and, not having any bug spray, annihilated the little buggers with Lysol.

Now My Cube reeks of Summer Breeze and Death.