This post may just prove how truly random my thoughts are.
I had an interview yesterday. While I most definitely should be looking for a new job that I don’t hate, this interview was completely unsought. (Well, almost.) The day I got fired, I filled out and application at a chain restaurant that rhymes with Gherkins. Sadly, I never heard back from them. That is, until last week. While I am not exactly thrilled about staying in the restaurant business, the allure of possible mega-tips from working at a place that rhymes with Gherkins was enough to have me agree to an interview.
So there I was, an exceptional candidate for employment, a half hour early to my interview. The nice woman in the front offered me a seat and said it would be an expected few moments before my interviewer could get to me. I would like to mention here that customers eating their breakfasts were treated to a lovely viewing of my favored fuschia stillettos, which they showed their appreciation for by actually turning around in their chairs to watch the clicking of them on the newly-remodeled ceramic tiles. Anyhoo, my interview went as well as could be expected, considering that the man doing the hiring didn’t have a clue what hours or how many shifts he was hiring for. Stay tuned for the results…
Moving on.
There are many disgusting things in this world. Paying taxes, silent-but-deadly farts, and Taylor Swift are just a few things that come to mind. However, there is one thing that truly makes the bile rise in my throat.
Eyebrow hairs.
This may seem a bit dramatic, but let me explain.
I do not, in general, have an issue with eyebrow hairs that are connected to their designated facial spaces, unless they wander noticeably across the top of someone’s nose. But an eyebrow hair that has detatched itself and floated randomly to a non-above-the-eyes place? PUTRID! To find a lone eyebrow hair on my face or some other assorted spot is comparable to watching Marilyn Manson hump an unsuspecting fan’s head. The very thought brings goosebumps to my skin, and makes me nauseated enough that I must cease writing on the subject.
On to Harry Potter.
It is safe to say that most Americans and all English-born peeps have heard of and witnessed the phenomenon that is Harry Potter. The only ones that probably haven’t are those overly-religious zealots that believe magic is of the devil and perhaps non-TV-viewing hippies who are creating their own magic.
I admit that it took me until the fifth book in the series was out before I jumped onto the Harry Potter Bandwagon. But once I did, I was just as engrossed as all those people who throw Harry potter-themed costume parties. I went to midnight showings of the movies, and read the books in their entirety. There’s just one little problem, now.
Somewhere between Harry’s twelvth birthday and the murder of Sirius Black, I developed a disturbing crush on Harry Potter.
Or, more accurately, the boy who plays Harry Potter.
I know I’m not the only one, but it caught me a bit off-guard when, while watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, I found myself lusting after a teenaged Daniel Radcliffe.
This is not an unhealthy obsession like the one some of you may say I have on Chris Meloni. (Which reminds me, does anyone else think Chris could play Daniel’s father in a future unwritten movie by moi? They have the same eyes, I think.) All I can say is- damn! I wanna kiss a dorky-looking teenager. Luckily, he is of legal age, so if ever we two meet, my almost-pedophiliac ass will not be spending 7-10 years in the clink for statutory rape. 
Have a nice day.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 