ah, shaddup!

My stomach has been talking to me all day. I don't think gastrointestinal pieces and parts should talk to one another. They shouldn't be in one another's business, and if they are, I don't want to know about it. Guts have no manners. The large colon has been sending Bronx cheers to the small intestine most of the afternoon, who, in turn, has responded like Mrs. Cravitz in spreading the gossip throughout the entire GI system. Nosey bitch. The sphincter community is all worried and has instituted a neighborhood watch for these inconsiderate jerks. The police are stuck way up in the pancreas eating doughnuts to convert into insulin, so they are no help. It's societal dysfunction at its worst.

In other news, P*ris H*lton is putting together an album...you know, of music, uh, where she sings and stuff. Pass the cocktail forks darling, I'm going to poke my eyes out.

Speaking of poking my eyes out...next month I will have worked for my company for 15 years. Count 'em...FIFTEEN. Gah, that's sick! This ain't the 50's, dude. Move on!

This is going to be a big year of change for me; some of which I can't blog about just yet-but would like to! Like Peter Brady says, "It's time for a cha-a-a-nge." I want to get going. Now. I'm tired of feeling impatient. *furrows brows, sports quizzical look*