So, I prepared well ahead of time for this vacation. I was double checking my duffle bag last night and what should happen?! It burst. It broke, kaput, ripped, died a horrible death. Okay, it ripped at the seam a little. Mighty seamstress that I am, a woman sought after in all the kingdoms for her skilled work with a needle (i.e. jabbing it in my thumb accidentally with such pomp and flare!), I repaired the bag.

Once it was black. Now it looks as though a mountain lion attempted to eat it and regurgitated it upon the hardwood floor with a lump of green twine. Alas, poor bag. I knew ye well. I shall not give up! I'm taking it anyway! No, I'm not stubborn, I'm poor and it's my only bag. *slinks away to the airport in shame*

I have an idea as to the general outcome of my trip. Let's see if I'm right when I get back!

Day 1: Flight horrible. Fingers frozen to seat arms. Paramedics called to pry me loose.

Day 2: Awakened at 5 am by Howler Monkeys. How cute. Take lots of pictures. Enjoy day at the beach.

Day 3: Awakened at 5 am by Howler Monkeys. Throbbing headache. Drank too much and sunburnt from day at beach.

Day 4: Damn the Howler Monkeys! Can't a gal get some sleep around here? Skin crinkles now from intense UV rays. Have slathered on entire tube of sunscreen to no avail.

Day 5: Made slingshot with discarded debris and attacked Howler Monkeys after awakening at five am yet again. Haha! Take that, cousins! Now make crinkling noises when sit down. Skin has gone from red to black in some places. Attacked by mosquitos on way to beach. Strange growth on leg.

Day 6: Awakened to fire outside of room. Herd of Howler Monkeys dancing outside in circle with sharpened sticks. Escape through back window and into forest.

Day 7: Sneak back to camp. Spent day eating strangely deformed berries. Skin beginning to fall off. Locals make the sign of the evil eye whenever I approach.

Day 8: Awakened to Howler Monkeys throwing tarantulas on me and laughing maniacally. Rushed to hospital and immediately quarantined as public health risk.

Day 9: Released from hospital. Now mummified in gauze. Travel mates keep distance from me and only approach brandishing crosses and cans of Lysol.

Day 10: Relaxing peacefully in room. All doors and windows locked. Howler Monkeys have disappeared. Fear they are forming new devious plot against me. Itch horribly beneath gauze.

Day 11: To raise more money for the trip, travel mates have started charging the locals admission to see me. They have changed my name to The American Horror and am forced, under pain of death, to pose for pictures.

Day 12: The Howler Monkeys are back! Am now stuck in pot of stew as they dance naked around the fire. Must find a way to escape. Call upon powers of mentor Bugs Bunny. Point into distance and scream in horror. Leap from pot while they are distracted and run back to room, bar and lock door.

Day 13: One day left in this hell hole. Sit in darkened corner with a sharpened stake. Have already bitten anyone who comes near. Travel mates currently at apothecary seeking rabies shots.

Day 14: Thank you, thank you, thank you! Back on accursed plane. Kiss the flight attendants who scream in horror. Because of my condition am locked in cargo bay as other travelers terrified by my appearance. Do not care. Am just happy to have escaped. Finally! What's that noise? Oh no! A Howler Monkey has snuck aboard and I am locked in this room! Help!!!!!!!!

I can only hope it won't be like this.

I got off work yesterday and skipped to my car in a cloud of manic glee. I was so very happy that I even felt good will towards my fellow man/woman - until I got stuck on the Beltline in traffic at which point I wished fervently I had some form of remote control operated death ray. I can picture it now - a giant can of RAID in the sky fully under my control.

I came to work today prepared to swallow (even chew, if necessary) the coffee in the breakroom. I have Tums in my drawer, a portable stomach pumping kit (i.e. the hand water pump for my fish tank) and all the important numbers to call in order to reach poison control in the event of an emergency. For once in my life I have prepared diligently for something and when I strode into the breakroom, fully equipped to handle the toxic waste drink of the day, I learned that we are out of coffee filters. Ergo, no coffee today. I suppose all is not at a loss. I could probably drink the Drain-o today until Ms. Busty Bubbly Blonde (the receptionist - remember I'm at war) picks up some filters. I'm sure it would taste the same as the coffee and maybe, if I'm lucky, even a little better.



I leave on Saturday for Costa Rica for two weeks. Hurrah! I'm flying. Boo! I have never flown before and, of course, I have to be leaving on an airplane that will be thousands of feet in the air on the week of Friday the 13th. I suppose I will be fine during the flight as long as the attendants don't suddenly strap on a parachute and wish us all a safe landing. And as long as I have alcohol. Sweet, blessed, mind-numbing alcohol. It shall be my friend and I will stroke it, kiss it, and name it George until I'm institutionalized directly after landing. Or shot. These days you never know which one will come first.

I have 11 minutes until I can escape.

I was caught salivating and pawing at the glass windows in the hallway and dragged once again back to my desk by that pesky critter named "Responsibility".

There is a cubicle in this office that is littered with Sponge Bob paraphenalia. Those creepy lidless eyes and oddly pronounced butt keep following me whenever I slink past it. Even more terrifying is the woman (not girl, WOMAN) that works in that cube proclaiming loudly to us all that she will marry Sponge Bob for his sexy buttocks and then proceeds to kiss the little McDonald figurines. A small voice in the back of my mind is crying right now and hiding in a darkened corner with a blankey.

The only annoying creature on my desk is the little dancing hamster purchased by my mother for me. If you press it's hand it sings "Kung Fu Fighting" and then proceeds to have some type of electrical seizure, though I have been assured he is merely "dancing" and swinging a plastic stick in what is supposed to be a cute manner. I despise this hamster and keep trying to devise ways for him to be on the receiving end of a heavy smashing 'accident'. No matter my devious plots, he remains intact and in working order on my desk. Curse it, Mother! The things I do for you out of love.

Finally! This day is almost over. *jumps, skips, trips*

I finally received my new key card for getting into this blasted building in the mornings. I went and requested it again from the busty receptionist and all she did was giggle. I don't understand this "giggling" phenomenon that some women do. I don't giggle. I either snicker (and sound like someone shoved a grape up my nose) or laugh horribly, horribly loud in the manner of a dying hyena. Small children and dogs collapse in agony at the sound of my laughter and only small, shriveled up old ladies deafened by decades of listening to their husbands whine are immune.

I still have not managed to procure coffee. My survival instincts have kicked in and I fear that if I drink any more of that sludge my intestines will do the macarana, tango right out of my ears, and ride horseback into the sunset. I have subjected myself to fountain water instead and attempt to blank from my mind's eye the images of sick coworkers undoubtably sneezing, sniffling or licking the fountain in sadistic plague spreading glee.

In the past month I have walked in on some of the strangest occurances in this bathroom. 1.) Coworker was washing her feet in the public bathroom sink. All I could manage to do was look at her in quite an uncivilized (i.e. mouth agape and nose curled in fungus scented horror) manner. 2.) Another coworker was curling her hair ... on the same sink. Her hair was all akimbo and knotted up in different ties as she worked on a specific spot. I had to hold in the urge to laugh uproarously for fear of getting stabbed with the piping hot curling iron and falling on the highly sticky and disturbingly unsanitary floor. If I fell on it, I'm sure it would have the properties of super glue and I would never manage to pry myself off. Or, even worse, sulfuric acid and I would dissolve into a puddle of goo. 3.) Yet another coworker carrying on a conversation of love and endearingly sweet (i.e. gag me now and get a room, chicky) nothings to her significant other while locked in the stall. Her conversational words were not the ONLY disturbing noises echoing from that stall either. "I love you too, sweetums -BRAAAAAPPPPP!" Nothing says "I love you" like - well, you get the idea.