Tonight, I worked a particularly stressful, annoying shift at the bookstore, where I was charged with completely rearranging the journal display. Only there are too many journals, not enough space and no real, concrete semblance of order to the display. So I dismantled it, per the recommendation of my manager, and it became a mess. Then, I told the manager it was a mess when she wanted me to do something else, and she then told me that she didn't mean for me to dismantle "too much of it at once."
So she picked it up while I, ashamed, did the other task she wanted me to do.
Luckily, someone is going through and reorganizing it tomorrow, while I don't work at the bookstore and remind myself that a damn journal display is really NOT AT ALL a big deal in both the long-term and short-term course of human events.
Frustrated, I went to see "Wimbledon." Well, um, actually I went to see Paul Bettany looking tanned and athletic, preferably shirtless. And, unfortunately, there was a romantic comedy-sports movie surrounding all that delightful Paul Bettany exposure. (I think there's a split-second ass shot that you might be able to freeze-frame when the otherwise-forgettable movie comes out on DVD.)
Paul Bettany is completely adorable.
The movie reminded me of London. I miss London. I want to live there. I miss London more than I miss sex. I miss London almost as much as I miss genuinely being in love with someone, which happened to me once that I can recall.
That object of my affection when I did that so long ago, naturally, was British, which means I need to move to another country or at least find a hot guy with an accent to regard dreamily.
OK, I should move.