My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours

One of the worst things about having a sister/boyfriend in the armed services is that no matter how hard you try, you will never win the 'My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours' game. Because - even if you have to trek across 4 suburbs in the pouring rain, rinse permanent colour through the wrong woman's hair, trip and spill searing hot coffee all over your new skirt and unwillingly get high off Domestos fumes and end up shaving your co-workers head (not that I would do something crazy like that, I'm just saying) - unless you are working at some rare hairdresser slash guns and ammo store, there's very little chance that you're going to get, you know, SHOT at work. Here's how it usually goes when I play My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours:

Me: Oh my gosh, that was the longest day in the history of the universe. It was long. So long. It went forever. I actually feel like I'm still living it. I'm half expecting someone to burst in and demand that I shampoo an old ladies hair at any minute. It's like torture. Extended torture. The kind of torture you can't escape even when it's over. Do you know what happened to me today? Do you even know? Okay, let me tell you. Well first of all -
Catherine/Owen: I got shot at today.
(pause)
Me: Ah, shit. You win again.

So far the score is somewhere around eight dillion to zero. I'm hoping for a late comeback.

In other news, Jess Morton (also known as Spesh, Special Jessie, Jessie Bear or Jessica Ann Morton Healy Q) was officially the first of my high school friends to turn 21 this week. Or ever, really. But her birthday was this week. So that explains that. Happy Birthday JB. I would go on to write a rambling non-sensical post about you and your face and the crazy things you and your face do together, but if you'll recall, I already wrote one about 3 years ago. Here it is, for those of you who are interested. Please ignore my terrible grammer - and that means you Beth.