Rx: 2 Testicles

Scrubs is the reason I'm not dead. And I've been working for seven days. That's a week. A week is nothing. There are fifty-two of them each year. And there are a lot of years in your life- less than average if you're lucky. And here I am bitching and moaning about just one of them. But it was such an AWFUL seven days. Granted, it's getting better. I know some of the people now, and I talk to people, and it only takes three years for the ten and a half hours to pass, not a decade. But still.

Today I came home, covered in lip gloss. Literally. It's smeared all over my shirt. I smell like strawberry limeade, but not real strawberry limeade, just whatever Bonne Bell decided stawberry limeade smells like. Which, by the way, is kool-ade. Just generic, kool-adey smell. There isn't anything specifically strawberry or limey about it. It's sort of fruity, sugary spell. I don't know. You would understand if you had to inhale it for so long each day. It never goes away, either. Its intensity wears off after the initial five minutes, but the essence of it hangs around all day. If you have the misfortune of having a smackers, everytime you reach into the box, you're hit with a new wave.

New wave, of course, would be a nice change. I like new wave. I do not like oldies. Let me clarify- I like oldies in moderation. I do not like them for 10.5 hours a day. If I hear Pretty Woman one more time I'm going to walk down ITS street. Earlier last week I was forced to endure a more modern compilation of songs, ranging from sappy pop (i.s. The Fray and Snow Patrol, who I usually enjoy, but the song Chasing Cars makes me want to get hit by said vehicle) to annoying (Avril Laviegn or however you spell her name) to outrightly suicidal contemporary pop (John Mayer and Howie Day, anyone?) I fully believe the only thing worse than what we endured then is Country. Oldies was actually a nice change for a while, but it's gone on too long. I want New Wave. Or alternative. Or death metal.

And on the topic of inhaling, today we did 9,000 sparkly pink bags. Strawberry Treats blaa blaa blaa. They are actually kind of cute, I have to admit- not as cute as yesterday's LSD bag, though. Regardless, they have glitter on them. I'm pretty sure someone just took the felt end of the bag and put it on top of a pan covered in a thick layer of shimmer dust, then lifted it up to enjoy the sparkly goodness. Well that's all well and good for the seven years olds who will pester their mothers into buying these things, but it's not so good for us. I'm pretty sure there's at least five pounds of glitter dust in my lungs. When doctors cut open someone like Ricky, they'll find tar. Anthony and Sarah are more likely to produce fiberglass from the clove cigarettes. Jack will probably have a hydroponics plant in his lungs. But I will have lungs coated in a three inch layer of sparkling, glittering, shimmering... shit.