Well, I just finished a podcast-interview-type-thing with this "gamers" website that I was forced to do for work. The president of our company didn't want to do it, so she told me to do it, giving me the direction, "Just be funny." Sure, no problem. I love being funny at 10:00 p.m. on a Tuesday night, talking into my microphone to a couple of nerdarinos through Skype.
I have no idea how it went -- I literally rambled for 45 minutes about fuck knows what. I know he asked me about how the company got started, but everything after that is a blur. I really can't wait for them to post it on their site, because the resulting pain and humiliation I will feel should do wonders for my refluxitude.
I've been having this intense college-themed stress dreams of late. They follow the classic I've-blown-off-the-class-all-semester-and-I-have-a-giant-paper-due format. I don't know what I'm stressed about, though. I mean, more than my basal level stress (which, in and of itself, would kill most mortals). It might have something to do with the giant stack of pillows I have to sleep on to prevent the river of stomach acid from bubbling off my uvula. It must be what Quasimodo feels like when he sleeps on his back.
Oh well, gotta go. I've got my final paper due tomorrow on "Losses in Gross Brain Volume and Cerebral Blood Flow Account for Age-Related Differences in Speed but Not in Fluid Intelligence," and I don't even know what building the class is in.
Where are those fucking pillows?!