But damn it, I've got a really great natural hair color. And that set guy on Alias told me that I have a perfect nose. I'm a good writer when I actually sit down to, you know, actually do it. I can bake. I live in the most awesomely awesome neighborhood in Los Angeles. I've got insanely fantastic friends who will jump on the bed with me in Las Vegas and not make fun of me when my bra is showing at the McDonald's in the MGM Grand. And I'm going to a trendy, frou-frou restaurant for dinner tomorrow night. I think I've got it pretty good at the moment. (Of course, I do reserve the right to whine whenever I want to...)
Okay. Got that out of the way. Now I can cash in my reservation to whine...
I have had it with 818 and 310 numbers calling me that have nothing to do
with anything besides my car warranty being up. I usually reserve the not-answering-the-phone thing for 866, 877, and 800 numbers, along with rando area codes that I do not recognize. When I see 818 or 310, my heart normally stops and I ask myself, "Could this be the moment? Could this be the call I've been waiting for?" And inevitably, I picture myself driving through a studio lot in a golf cart, my caramel colored hair (no split ends in this image) flowing in the breeze... Only to hear Mr. Roboto tell me about a carpet-cleaning special when I don't even freaking own my duplex. What. The. Hey-Hey?! Cue the soul-crushing.
This is so not cool, universe. Not cool at all.
P.S. If you've gotten a resume from me, you're more than welcome to call, though. Hint, hint. I'd like to actually drive that golf cart while my hair is still caramel-colored and not, you know, the color of Oscar the Grouch's trash can.
But I'm not concerned about 30.
Nope.
Really.
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