Barf

Good morning, good morning, indeed, it's at least a morning. I feel fucking sick - got home retardedly, frustratingly late last night, and let me go on record as saying the Killers suck. I find it nauseating that the lead singer has been compared so much to Bruce Springsteen. Ripping off a few melodic patterns from 'Born to Run' and singing retard lyrics like 'don't you want to come with me, don't you want to feel my heart' in a castrated, tremulous whine that seems to have needed a machine to stay on key does not a fucking Bruce Springsteen tribute make. Maybe a Richard Marx tribute - a weak one. Fuck. They were alot better when they were trying to be English.

In other news, it was a pleasant, relaxing weekend. So pleasant and relaxing that hours would go by without me thinking about my employment prospects. So when the phone rang at 5 o'clock yesterday displaying "Unknown Number" I think the F-word and I even joked a little about how it couldn't possibly be someone wanting an interview. And then it was. I nearly flipped but I think I squeezed out coherent words. It was a screening interview from a lady who was on her way to a European bed for something I'd applied to months and months ago that paid good, good money. Weeee! Anyways, I'm still thrown by that. Watch me work like a dervish today.