bitchapalooza

I feel like death. I have worked 32 hours since Wednesday and that does not include freelance work I did all Wednesday morning. I want to die. I just yelled at a publicist. She deserved it. She was a fucking idiot.

In other news, I hate the CTA. I rarely had a bad thing to say about it in the past, but recently it has been a pile of flaming shit. The Blue Line, specifically. Wednesday night I waited 50 minutes for a train that never came. Well, maybe it did but I left and got a cab. Then yesterday--at 4 p.m.-- not an unusual travel time for a Thursday, it took me one hour and 20 minutes to get from Clark/Lake to California.

I’m over it. But I really don’t know how to BE over it. How does one get around? If I drive I will break the (already meager) bank, if I cab it…even worse. Bike? Not good when I have a giant bag of press releases, notebooks and have a newly enforced dress code. Also not good when I have to go from Job #1 Downtown to Job #2 in Lincoln Square to Home in Logan Square at between midnight and 2 a.m.

I am in a pickle.

I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Well, I get off at 4 today. Then I’m going to the South Side to escape for the evening--and sleep in air conditioning because mine decided to break yesterday, of all days.

Time for espresso.

(Tracey and I are considering giving up our respective lives, which basically consist of working and bitching about working--and drinking for me--and moving to a little town some place, getting a house and opening a café or cute bakery. We can eat cupcakes all day and it won’t matter because we will be fat and happy.)