But I totally found my dream job. I hope they call me.

And not like that ESL book thing was my dream job -- that would've been totally sweet, and I cried when I didn't get it, but I have found something a little more up my alley.

There's a damn assistant lifestyles editor gig for some papers near Gilroy. The requirements are pretty much exactly what I can (and sort of have) done. The location isn't too far away. There is layout required which is so precisely what I want to do. You know how long I've been obsessed with layout. It's dorktastic fun.

And I've applied for others. I have an interview for this very part-time deal in San Jose, if I want it. My qualm is that it's eight fucking hours a week, way less income than I need, and I don't know if it's worth being tied down, even for so little time, to jump at the chance. But then, I don't know how picky I can be, either. Ugh. not very, I'm sure.

Manohman. I hope these people call me. I want a cool job.

Now, I appreciate a good deal.

But I don't appreciate yelling. In an office setting. On my TV.

And normally, my good deals don't come from a chain store known for its cheap clothing. They come from thrift stores, outlets, or sale racks. Because I am seriously cheap. Stuff that costs more than $10, say, doesn't scream "good deal" to me, just on principle.

So the Old Navy commercial with the girl in the office shrieking about how great air is and how much she enjoys breathing? Should stop breahting now for being such a dipshit. I feel no empathy for this character; how could her vapidness encourage me to buy cheap, trendy clothes?

It doesn't. Stupid commercials.