I was in desperate need of pantyhose and/or liposuction this morning as I rooted around under my desk trying to plug in my phone charger. I couldn't fit into any of my pants this morning and so wore a skirt that also didn't fit and that was way too short and terribly unflattering. Crawling around on the floor with my ass up in the air was hardly an option, and yet I made it one.

"This is Colleen!" I heard my manager say as I cracked my head on the partition. I backed out as quickly as possible and turned to face him and some dude standing there.

"Hello," I said, surely blushing beneath five layers of makeup.

"This is the new director of something or other" (sic), my manager volunteered.

"Pleased," I replied, waiting patiently for them to leave so that I could pull my skirt down over my crotch.

They left and I resumed searching for flights to Hawaii all day. I plan to go to in November. That's been one of my goals for, oh, ever. I save so much money by living in a commune that it's finally become a reality.

I hate the gym. I hate that whatever sporty shirt I buy consistently rides up over my gut, which is not pretty. It's why I'm at the gym. I hate that the employees yell, "HI COLLEEN" and "BYE COLLEEN" like maniacs every time I enter and exit. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Do not touch me. Get away from me.

While I'm lazing about on the elliptical with my sporty shirt over my gut, my 3 roomates are at home doing the also maniacal "P90X" program. They work out like crazy people and don't eat anything but fish and water. This leaves me, the lone roley poley, to come home with my Jack in the Box and eat it in shame while they do pull-ups in the bathroom doorway. Blahsauce.

Other than dealing with the aftermath of having yacked in my car the other week (don't puke in your car, kids) things are looking up. I'm on vacay this week and I found a new job at my old building. I start next Monday. Goodbye Personn(h)el(l). Goodbye downtown. Goodbye ugly, oppressive building. 100-dollar parking garage. Pedestrians. Bicyclists. Bums. Bitchy women. Ostrich ensembles. Phew. It's over.

So I went snowboarding. Sort of. I threw a bitch-fit during the lesson, asked her how to take my "Goddamn snowboard off," did so, and then stomped off down the hill I couldn't drag myself up that all the other 13 year-olds had effortlessly. When my boyfriend convinced me to put it back on, I continuously fell on my ass, which could possibly be broken now. I can't tell through all the layers of blubber.

My next excursion involves floating down the river in a yellow raft while getting drunk. I SHOULD be able to handle that, but I've yet to experience the great outdoors without erupting into heaving sobs (very early on, I might add).

I projectile vommed all over myself and my car today. That's not going to help the resale value (of either of us). The day got worse and worse and my migraine progressed and progressed until I gathered my things and ran (trotted) to my car in the garage and started driving home. Then, whilst driving down busy busy 16th street, suddenly puked up my grilled cheese and cherry soda. All. Over. My. Car.

My boyfriend tells me I should've either puked out the window in front of everyone on 16th street or stopped and gotten out and puked in the bike lane in front of everyone on 16th street. He says he wouldn't have puked in his car. Well, you really don't know what you're going to do until you actually are faced with ralphing while driving. It's also difficult to navigate when hurling. Like a sneeze, your eyes sort of close. I'm surprised no one died. To my knowledge. I suppose I should watch the local news tonight.

Of course I have an interview tomorrow and I have to drive to it in, what else, my vommed-in car. I did my best to clean it, but you know it never goes away. I bank on looking fly and smelling nice to get me jobs since I've the interviewing skills of a deaf/mute. Does it really matter how fly I look tomorrow if I smell like puke? Fucking A.

I still don't know what the hell House of the Rising Sun is about, but it seems to describe how I feel at work quite perfectly.

I have been removed from the closet at work due to deficiencies in the use of Microsoft Excel. This was only told to me after I asked why I was being exiled from the closet of the manager who sent an email asking to see me. I exited the closet and walked to said manager's desk. "Yes?" I said.

"Sit down," she said. I sat down.

"Here you go." She handed me a memorandum which read as follows:

To: Colleen (Staff Services Analyst)
Subject: TERMINATION OF CLOSET DUTY

Your temporary position in the closet is terminated as of this day. Please return to Crazy Carla's section immediately. Thank you for your assistance in the closet.

Sincerely:

Dana (Staff Services Manager I)

I looked up at her. "Why?"

"Honestly?" she asked. I pondered whether I wanted her to lie to me or not for a second and then I shook my head yes.

"You're not proficient in Excel. From now on, we're going to administer an Excel test before we hire anyone."

I winced. So what you're saying is that you wish you could go back in time and not hire me? Jesus Christ, I should've told you to lie. I packed up my shit and left the closet for my previous cubicle, where I found my old supervisor in her ostrich ensemble. "I'm back," I said to her, filled with shame.

"Yeah," she said, "I know."

I spent the remainder of the day crying under my desk as I tried to reassemble my Ikea desk lamp, but after driving home and eating some Burger King, I find myself full of rage. I have been motivated to put up an ad on Craigslist for "Writer for Hire." In this ad, I admit to not knowing anything topical nor being able to use Excel, but being infinitely knowledgeable on the happenings of the Kardashians and to a slightly lesser extent, the Jenners. So far I have received one response from a gentleman requesting that I edit his book on politics, but I think I'll pass. At least until I'm officially fired from the State.

They "temporarily" moved me into a closet at work. This closet contains 8 or so other women, one of whom blares the Rhianna channel on her Pandora all day long. This has re-familiarized me Beyonce's B-Day album. (Watch it while he check up on it. Move it, pop it, something something.)

The major topic of discourse this week was the party that I'm not invited to that's going on tonight. $100 dollars was needed for the acquisition of alcohol so that they can "get fucked" playing "margarita pong." I do admit pangs of jealousy struck me. I do so enjoy getting fucked on margaritas. Not with Rhianna girl, however. I want to grab her by her blonde ponytail and slam her head into her crappy computer speakers repeatedly, day in and day out. She apparently lacks respect for all the other women in the closet. I am now intimately familiar with her tanning schedule she explains in detail to her boyfriend, Jonathan. This is necessary so that she does not become "so burned!" while in Cancun in March.

Speaking of boyfriends, I moved in with mine much to the chagrin of my Lady Psychiatrist. Me-time is precious, she explained. I replied that my entire life up to this point could be considered "me-time" and that it really isn't necessary at this point. Nor is cohabiting with Ophelia or the train thundering by every 5 minutes. Yes, I think it was a wise decision.

Packing up my manifestos, and found a single, undated pink Post-It note, on which was printed:

I do not want you out of my life, but I am trying to communicate to you, albeit in an "obnoxious and childish manner," that the fundamental discord between us is that you're an asshole.

It's a shame this never made it to whomever it was directed to. I couldn't tell you who that was, because they've all called me obnoxious and childish.

There are no dudes in Human Resources. I take that back, there's two. The first I have no real knowledge of beyond that fact that he looks just like Ray Romano. I call him Ray Romano for this reason. The second I refer to as Profoundly Unfriendly Metrosexual. He's prettier than me and has signs hanging all over his cubicle that pronounce him "Most attractive guy in HR." How does he think that makes Ray Romano feel? At any rate, neither of them will acknowledge my existence. So much for making dude friends, the only kind of friends I make.

As you may have deduced mathematically, there is no shortage of women. There's Marge, who lives in Brentwood, but is considering buying a house here and spends all day every day on the phone talking about this prospective purchase and what a pain in the ass it will be because she lives in Brentwood. I Googled Brentwood while she blathered on and on about it, as it was not in my geographic vocabulary. I determined that it lies somewhere in the Bay Area, which blows my mind. I would rather lie on train tracks than commute from the Bay Area. Course I would rather lie on train tracks than do most things, but I digress.

There's Peg, whom I call Snow Globe, because she spent the entire month of November laying out her plans (Verbally. Loudly) for Black Friday. First she would get in a few zzz's after Thanksgiving Dinner, then she would head over to Target to camp out til midnight at which point she would purchase a blu-ray player for 29 dollars. Next up, Best Buy, where she would buy 5 dollar blu-rays for said player. Eventually she would find herself at JC Penney's for snow globes (I didn't catch their monetary value) and end up at Starbucks for a quick scone before venturing out to Michael's for 75% off the Tiny Town Christmas Village figurines. My eyes had rolled so far back in my head one morning from listening to her that I could barely get them back down for yet another lunchtime meeting with my two bosses.

I took a swig of my now-cold breakfast mocha and headed into some dismal room where I sat blinking and starving.

"I want you to take charge of the next steering committee!" Crazy Carla bellowed at me suddenly, causing me to pee a little. "I want you to facilitate! Take the lead! Talk us through!"

Are you out of your Goddamn mind? I thought angrily, unable to control my scowl. I don't facilitate meetings. You're lucky I'm not puking peppermint mocha on your desk. I glanced over at my other, tiny boss. Her ostrich feathers ruffled on her ridiculous ostrich outfit as she flipped her long hair around. She had just finished discussing ostrich ensembles that were only available at Nordstrom this time of year. She would be no help.

If you're wondering, my contribution to the next steering committee meeting (which was held at noon) consisted of my usual looking about the room stupidly in silence. I have no plans to do otherwise.

I'm (relatively) fat. Relative to when I was 22 and a hundred pounds. I guess I want to be 22 and a hundred pounds again. Everything passing by is not coming back, says VAST.

I can't blare VAST because of my stupid-ass, retired-ass, curmudgeony-ass neighbor. I can't even make use of my sub-woofer anymore.

I hate my hair. I shouldn't have cut it.

I'm in debt. I owe Comcast the cable company upwards of ten-thousand dollars every month so I can watch "I Survived-Beyond and Back" on the BIO channel and fantasize about dying and going to Heaven, because hey, it fucking sucks owing Comcast the cable company ten-thousand dollars every month. Is there somewhere else to be? asks VAST.

I have a library book in collections. And not just any library book, a library book about positive thinking. I borrowed it months and months ago when I was mildly interested in thinking positively. I can't find it, and have reverted to solely thinking negatively.

I've gotten jury duty summons once a year for the last...how long has it been since I turned 18 and was a hundred pounds? 12 years. I ignore it every year, because I aint doing that shit. I'm not going to a courthouse and letting a lawyer ask me questions until he's determined I'm too intelligent to serve and sends me on my merry way. Well I've finally received a little postcard saying I'm going to get pulled over and arrested. This isn't good, dude. That sort of interferes with my new job, which brings me to my next point:

I spend all day every day weeping at my new job. WHO DOES THAT? My old coworker, whom I miss dearly, told me to tell all the ladies I work with that my boyfriend called me fat and that accounts for my crying. Am considering it.

I can't spell liaison. My first project at my new job involves writing this word hundreds of times. You think I would have learned after the first couple hundred times, but no. I just cannot wrap my mind around that second Goddamn I right after the stupid A like that. I would say the word liaison is about 30% responsible for the constant sobbing at my cubicle.

This is a work in progress. Check back.