I wish the lady at Subway wouldn't ask if I want cheese on my sandwich before she's even finished putting her gloves on. I walk up to the counter and say "I'd like a foot long turkey on Italian herb." She says "Okay, do you want cheese?" I always say yes, I want American cheese. And then, every time, she gets the bread, cuts it, puts on the turkey, and then asks me again "cheese?" EVERY TIME she does that. Why even ask the first time? Once, instead of pausing and saying "cheese?" she paused and said "Did you say provolone?" You know damn well I didn't say provolone. It doesn't make me super angry, just a little. And instead of yelling "Bitch, I just told you!" I bottle it all up inside and repeat my cheese selection. It'll be fuel for the fire on the day I blow a fuse and go crazy like the incredible hulk or Carrie from that movie Eric likes.
Interesting story in the washington post today about Eliot Spitzer as a tragic fictional character.
Kate says these posts are boring when they don't mention her. So hello, Kate. Look, no misspellings of "ridiculous" in this post.
That's all for now, I have to get back to work.
Kate: And, if you quote me saying that, I'm going to punch you the next time I see you.