I like books! And stuff!

I'd just like to say that today was a complete and total social disaster. I had to go to Half Price Books, to see if they had considered my application yet. I submitted it Sunday, and Stephanie of the handshake-that-parts-shoulder-from-socket sect told me that the manager would be back Tuesday, and an underling would start calling people to set up interviews Monday.

I'm not really sure how this picture applies. Uhm, you would remember your potential killer's name too if... she'd... Vulcan nerve handshake-d your hand? ...I like Spock.

 So I walk in today, sell some books, and ask the lady at the counter if they had looked at the apps yet. The manager was also standing there, and he was like "Ohp, we only had one summer position open, and we filled it last week! Sorry." Well, thanks, manager jerkface, for letting me know that I should stop holding my breath. Oh wait... you didn't. So then I bought a few books, and he had to follow me out into the parking lot because he forgot to give me the money he should have for selling my books. The books he watched me sell.

Completely unbiased portrait of this manager. I'm not bitter over his inability to let me know I didn't have a chance of getting hired and making me keep hoping I did, not one bit.

 So, equipped with the knowledge that the job I had been waiting on was no longer an option, I applied to a few other places. One of them was Barnes and Noble. I walk in, fill out an application, and go back to turn it in, and the guy is like "All right." and skims it, and then asks "And why do you want to work here?" completely off hand. Little did he know that he has just asked me the question to end all questions. My brain shuts down, systems on red alert. I have not planned out an answer to this inevitable question! I have nothing to say besides 'because I'm poor'! ABORT ABORT

Wait, you have to actually talk to people and convince them of your worthiness when you're applying for a job?

But the guy was still staring at me. I had to answer. "Uhm, I would like to work here because I like books, and I read a lot, and books are interesting, and I go to college so I'm around books a lot, and reading is fun, and I like books, and yeah so that's why I would like to work here. For the books." All higher brain function had shut off. I was stranded.

I like books so much I even know how to use them.

He just said okay, and I sensed the dismissal for what it was and beat a hasty retreat. Right into a girl I knew in high school. Sayanora, speedy retreat. I was doomed. And then, when I'd completed that awkward social encounter, I tried to buy a book and get the hell outta dodge. "Uh, miss? Don't forget your keys!" I'd left them on the checkout counter.
To top off the complete social incompetency? The books I bought today are as follows: Black Butler, a manga, two Star Trek books, and a book called Atlantis God (the description included nazis.)
Hello, My name is Brittni, and I am an utter social failure. (Hello, Brittni.)

Too lazy to think of a title? Why not Zoidberg?

So I've been absolutely motivated to make something recently. I have all this free time on my hands, with the sudden commencement of summer vacation. So I want to do all the things I've been meaning to do all school year; write a story, draw a picture, sew a hat, weave a basket underwater, anything.

This is what I expected to be. A masterpiece-creating artistic genius. And black.

So I sat down at my computer today, all prepared to write something full of witticism and intricate life lessons. Aaand... nada. I had absolutely no ideas. Mind was blanker than usual; not even a wayward line of song lyrics to be found. I had the will to write, just no muse. No single point of inspiration upon which to focus my genius. I closed the word document in dissapointment.

Perhaps my muse was just this frog, and he was too tiny for my creativity to sense.

How is it that during the year I can be struck with inspiration so acute that I am forced to dig furiously through my backpack for my moleskine at the most inopportune times, and during the summer when I have all the time in the world my creativity is struck dumb? Someone should really work on that. I think it has something to do with the fact that my brain is melting out of my ears because of the heat faster than Michael Jackson's nose melted off his face. I don't want to do anything when it's hot, besides stand in the shower mindlessly, so it is only logical that my imagination is equally as unproductive.

This is me. Imagine this ten times less productive, and that's me during the summer.

(I was going to put a picture of the aforementioned nose, but i googled it and it creeped me out too much.) With any luck, my imagination will kick itself back into gear soon. And if not, well, I guess that's why I'm an art history major, not a fine arts major.

Edit: I was watching that gif after I posted this entry, because I thought it was hysterical the first time I saw it. But then I started thinking about the circumstances behind the octopus's listless tumble and realized that the poor creature is probably suffering. Now I want to track down its owner and demand clarification. Anybody got a pitchfork I could borrow?