Wednesday, March 31, 2004
9. Hurl a stapler at the next person who asks me to unjam the fax machine.
8. Write "For a good time call Boss at Boss's Number" all over the bathroom walls.
7. Bring a backpack and empty the office supply cabinet into it.
6. Stand on my desk and perform an elaborate strip tease.
5. Bring in an NWA album and play it at top volume.
4. Kick someone just for the hell of it.
3. Call the corporate office and imply that our branch is a thinly veiled house of prostitution.
2. Put Pop Rocks in the coffee pot.
1. Glue everything in my boss's office to the desk.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
I'm sorry but that just tells me you're a mannerless jackass that grew up in a trailer and ate corn pops for dinner while watching Jerry Springer reruns and picking between your toes with a fork.
We all have bad gastrointestinal moments but Jesus Christ you could at least look guilty after encasing my desk in a fart cloud.
I feel bad for old Leeza because she could not possibly be an easier target, and if the name wasn't bad enough the pictures of her all over internetland definitely are. She looks like a woman who is either preparing to rip off a mask and expose her inner alien or kick your grandmother in the teeth.
This happens to me all the time. For some reason a song pops into my head and instead of mumbling the lyrics to myself like a normal person I feel compelled to dance like I'm on Solid Gold - The Crackhead Edition and sing like I'm on Talentless Dipshits Of American Idol Part XI.
Stevie is present quite often during these fits, and so are Marvin Gaye, They Might Be Giants, Depeche Mode, and the Rolling Stones. In my mind I am having a little Miller (pun not intended but actually quite funny now that I think about it) concert in which all of my musician friends are cheering me on and tossing roses at my feet.
I'm guessing I should probably seek treatment for this mysterious malady, but it's the only fun part of my workday and I'd hate to let it go.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Do men plan this? How do they know the exact second that they've been Windexed from your mind?
This is the kind of frustrating man-trait that makes me wish very strongly that I could be a lesbian. Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't think that women don't do that kind of thing. Women can be difficult and bitchy and demanding and hard to read but we do not have mad psychic powers that enable us to resurrect old flings.
It mystifies me.
What mystified me even more was the fact that he opened the conversation with "Hi." as if we never spent a day apart.
As always, I remembered to take a deep breath and repeat "I will not date an ex, I will not date an ex" four hundred times before agreeing to speak to him.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
I have been a dutiful little office grunt and have been limiting my time on the internet, partially because I fear my activities are being regarded with suspicion.
So if my boss is reading this I would like him to know that I love my job and consider my position as a cog in the corporate machine to be the most fulfilling facet of my life.
Saturday night beckons and I am so so ready for it. Come to me Saturday. Wrap me up in your trendy black-clad arms and make me your bitch.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
And then The Donald will whisk me away in his helicopter to my own beautiful corner office that is composed entirely of glass and marble. Once there I will write brilliant copy and occasionally sign reports while listening to some smooth music on my 942-disc CD changer with those cute little Bose speakers coming out of every wall.
Then I wake up and some schmuck is asking me where the coffee filters are located, and I want to scream "DON'T YOU KNOW THAT I SHOULD BE WORKING FOR DONALD TRUMP RIGHT NOW?? GET OUT OF MY FACE YOU INBRED MINDLESS LACKEY!!".
I'm glad that no one in my office is a mind reader.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Like the woman in the really jazzy suit that doesn't wear sneakers or boots in spite of the cold and who has the nicest laptop I've ever seen? She is the head of Chicago's underground version of Clone-Aid.
The guy who's asleep with his head bent into an uncomfortable position? He's really not sleeping. He's a secret undercover agent who is scouting the El for drug dealers, and under his jacket is an arsenal of high-tech weapons and secret spy cameras.
Maybe I look like a dashing young artist that is creating amazing things in my beautiful Bucktown loft.
Or maybe I look like a dangerous femme fatale who is seducing the head of a multi-million dollar corporation.
Or maybe I look like someone who sits at a desk all day and types and blogs and drinks too much coffee.
I like to think that I look more exciting than that so I think I will start giving people sly glances while riding the train home.
Monday, March 22, 2004
So please disregard the previous post because Joaquin (WHA-quin!)'s pretty face and Johnny Cash's music will make for an awesome awesome movie that would definitely beat out Christian zombies.
I have seen the ads for Tom Hanks's new movie and have noticed that he really looks like crap. He seems to have aged about twenty years in the past two months.
Not that this matters because we all know that men can look as old and crusty as they like in Hollywood while women must liposuck and Botox and collagen themselves into staring freaks.
I don't think anything could top Jesus, zombies, and beer for a truly well-rounded and fun-filled evening.
"Peter, you have betrayed me."
It is very obvious that I have not had enough coffee this morning.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
If you could go back in time and give some guy from a few hundred years ago the newspaper they would think it was the most horrific science fiction imaginable.
And they would be right.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Drunks should be able to celebrate the great drunken holiday without having to worry about freezing to death.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
I mean screw AIDS and cancer - there are loads of rich white men that need twentyfour hour erections and thick shiny hair.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
You were checking me out. I saw you. I was staring at you too and I know you saw me. You smiled several times and so did I. Neither of us was bold enough to make a move but I must say that I thought you were incredibly dazzling and your jawline was enough to make me sweat just a little bit.
I wish you had approached me with some casual line like "hey nice shirt" or "would you like another beer?" but you didn't, and I guess I can't blame you there because I didn't either.
At any rate you gave me a warm glow that has lasted and for that I'm grateful.
Friday, March 12, 2004
However I am finding a sincere lack of things to do since most of my buddies are married and do not do spontaneous weekend revelry type things.
I would like to be the sort of person who goes to a bar alone and just chats people up but I'm not. I admire those people to no end. I don't think it's that I'm uncomfortable around people. It's more the fact that I have no idea what I'd say.
Perhaps I will take a walk on the wild side tonight and have a drink somewhere new in hopes that I will meet like-minded people.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Have you ever taken one of those online what-job-best-suits-you tests? I have, and they always tell me that I should be in some type of creative field.
If I didn't think working in a creative field would mean I'd be making minimum wage at a record store I would quit my job and go for it.
Alas, I have sold out to the man.
Other times I feel like Igor the office grunt.
I know that's such a cliche but I really enjoyed it.
It would be kind of nice if that were true.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
I suspect that most bloggers are mild-mannered folk and are not necessarily half as opinionated and snotty as they may seem. I would even go so far as to say that most of us are pretty darn nice people. Why? Because we gripe bitch and complain about every miniscule irritation. We get it out of our systems by blurting it out on the screen, and then it's gone.
I don't hate people from Texas. I don't walk around railing about Rush. If you saw me on the street you would probably think I was a kindly-looking person, and if you spoke to me you'd find that I am pleasant and polite and usually full of fun sarcastic banter. I am not an evil hag that gets my ya-yas by trashing mankind. I'd like to buy the world a fucking Coke, for Chrissakes.
I just wanted to let you know that I am not quite as surly as I seem.
Maybe just a little.
If you're a particularly uptight conservative then I probably am really surly, but I dont care.
Deal with it.
And have a nice day.
Maybe it's because the woman in question has teased hair and is wearing metallic pink nail polish on her two-inch-long talons. Maybe I am envious of the four hundred dollar suit that she has accessorized so horribly. Maybe I hate everyone over the age of twenty that giggles.
Somehow I don't have a hard time picturing her at a debutante ball being escorted by one of Texas's upandcoming young Republinazis.
Maybe I am kind of a bitch but women like that piss me off. This is someone from money (swanky pearls) who was born with a road map. I am willing to bet that she attended the same university her mother attended and lived in the same sorority house. She only dated men from the proper fraternities and is now married to some guy that slaps his secretary on the ass because his wife has gotten puffy from having kids and scary-looking from too many Botox shots.
These women own every item from the Pampered Chef catalog and never use any of them. They only drink expensive white whine and say things like "goodness me" instead of swearing.
This is one of those women. Her eyes look over-open and sort of glazed.
The whole facade just seems so fake, like she should step out of her proper suit and bouffant hair and just kick back in some sweats with a beer.
I wonder if she ever wants to do that. Somehow I think not.
Why does this man feel that he should be above the law? His privacy is more important than the fact that he was bouncing along from doctor to doctor like Tweedledee? Sure.
His former maid is quoted as saying that she supplied him with "large quantities of painkillers" for years. So we have the maid and the doctor-hopping. How many of these things was he taking? Was this a substitute for Twinkie addiction?
I believe in second chances even for Rush, but I think he must still be under the influence if he thinks those medical records will stay out of court.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
*note - scroll all the way down*
I feel so special.
It would make a great conversation piece or perhaps a very unique dog toy.
Maybe when I am fifty I too will dissect everything and calcuate its weight watchers points and carbs and fat grams, but right about now it gives me a big fat fucking headache. Every day I hear at least ten separate diatribes about food, and so help me God I am going to cram a Twinkie up the ass of the next person who starts in on her diet.
If I sincerely believed that any one of you honestly gave a shit about losing your spare tire I would cease giving you a hard time (on this page, of course I am not quite this blunt in real life but I damn well wish I could be), but when I see that you have just absorbed your fourth Krispy Kreme and show no sign of stopping it is hard for me to Feel Your Pain.
What really frosts my cookie is when you eat the damn Krispy Kremes all morning and then spend a half an hour of your lunch loudly dissecting your salad in the lunchroom because there might be a slice of Atkins-unfriendly onion in it.
Am I supposed to feel bad that you are not melting away like Tammy Faye Baker's mascara? Am I supposed to share your righteous indignation in the face of your husband's newly found love of the MTV Spring Break girls? Am I supposed to listen to you whine about how much your damn feet hurt when I know very well that you sit on your ass for ninety nine point nine percent of the day?
Cry me a freaking river, Chubby.
I am often dragged into these diet discussions because people know that I do not eat meat and assume that I am a starving calorie counter. This is not true, and talking about food bores me to the core.
The other day I ate a banana and every single heifer that passed my desk screamed about the nine hundred carbs contained in its innocent looking yellow skin.
I don't give a rat's ass about carbs. I am not a chunky person. If I were a chunky person then I'd hope I would have the good grace to shut the hell up about it and bust my ass until my chunkiness had dissipated.
Why people want to burden the world with their tales of weight loss woe is completely beyond me. I can understand the serious ones, but this stupid office chatter is completely vapid and worthless.
With that I am going to go deep throat a banana in the copy room just to piss people off.
"I'd like a non-fat soy mocha with an extra shot. Or is that a capuccino? Or is it a latte? Does soy count as a latte? Is this called something else that I don't know about? WHY AM I MISREPRESENTING MY ENTIRE GENERATION BY NOT BEING ABLE TO ORDER A GODDAMN EXPENSIVE-ASSED COFFEE FROM THIS EVIL CORPORATE NIGHTMARE???? WHY???? TWELVE-YEAR-OLDS KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A LATTE AND A MOCHA!!!! I JUST WANT SOMETHING THAT'S LOADED WITH CAFFEINE AND SUGAR, GODDAMNIT, I HAVE A LOT OF FUCKING WORK TO DO!!!! CHAI???? WHAT THE FUCK IS A CHAI???? I JUST NOW LEARNED ESPRESSO, AND YOU'RE GOING TO HIT ME WITH CHAI???? AAAAAGH!!!!"
You should hear me when I'm at the drive-through.
I really don't think she's going to become someone's bitch. Anyone who has watched Martha Stewart on the television has seen her scary and somehow eerily (is that a word?) distant facial expressions. I am willing to bet that she will be running the joint within weeks.
Instead of having her lackeys purchase black market cigarettes she will ask for dried flowers and wire. Rather than spending her time getting into exercise yard brawls she will search for tiny pebbles with which to make mosaic art. Martha will change the face of prison cooking with her handy kitchen tips, and rather than shoveling down Salisbury steak and cold mashed potatoes, the prison girls will dine on ratatouille, herbed lamb chops, or fresh gazpacho.
It may sound like these activities would make her a mark, but I doubt anyone is going to be fucking with Martha. She smacks of a woman who would rip off your head, shit down your neck, and use your skull as a folk art centerpiece. Perhaps she will offer to teach Killer and Mo-Mo some new skills such as decoupage or maybe sponge painting.
Somehow I have faith that she will create a more genteel breed of prison matrons, and maybe that makes the whole debacle worthwhile.
Coworker B: I can't get into my employee e-mail account.
Miller: What happened when you tried to get in?
Coworker B: It said I had the wrong password.
Miller: Did you try another password? Maybe you forgot it.
Coworker B: I don't have another password. I use the same password for everything.
Miller: Call Tech Person and get your password, maybe you forgot it.
Coworker B: I did that. He said it was the same password I typed in.
Miller: Did you try it more than once?
Coworker B: No. Hang on a second.
Coworker B: Well how about that. Now it works. Damn computers. He must have reset it or something.
The scary thing is that this man truly believes that there is no chance he may have typed his password in wrong the first time. He instead chooses to believe that there is an evil technology troll in the basement somewhere that is fucking with his head.
Who knows, maybe he's right.
INCREASE THE SIZE OF THAT LOVE PUMP!
Somehow I cannot imagine any man referring to his mister happy as a "love pump". Nor can I imagine any woman referring to mister happy as a "love pump", including myself.
I applaud the spammers for their inventive phrases but something tells me that that particular e-mail will not receive many responses. It made me picture a man attaching a bicycle pump to his penis, and I'm sure that most men would be appalled by that little visual.
Taking into consideration the fact that part of my e-mail address is "miss", I'm not sure why I am frequently targeted by penis e-mailers.
Perhaps they assume that I have a boyfriend, but even if I did I don't think I'd pass any tips in his direction.
Monday, March 08, 2004
I hate you. I really really really hate you. Just when I think I have a shot at those black leather GAP pants (long length), you place a bid at the last possible second.
How are you doing this? I have cable internet and should be whupping your dialup asses.
I don't mind losing but I cannot tolerate losing by fifty fucking cents.
You're probably not even tall. You're probably like five fucking three and are going to hem the damn things or wear them all long and get the bottoms all frayed. What a waste of good pants.
This is the third time I have lost The Pants and I will probably never find them again.
You suck and I hope whoever owned those pants before had crabs.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Thursday, March 04, 2004
2 slices Brownberry 12-grain bread (stops to consider that she cannot even name 12 grains)
one plum tomato, sliced
half an avocado, sliced
couple slices of onion
couple of sliced banana peppers
slice of fresh mozzarella
This will make your mouth happy just like (whatever product is responsible for that phrase).
I almost forgot how much fun this is.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Everything looks brighter after a beer. That should be a slogan.
If anyone is interested in a trade, please let me know. You can have the periods or the babies and I will control the remote and scratch my balls.
It would also be nice to get paid for watching movies, listening to new records, or testing new brands of cookies.
I think my dream job would be owning my own record store in which I would not carry copies of anything by Celine Dion or Linkin Park or Michael Bolton or Nelly. It would be called Miller's Stuff That Isn't Crap.
I could see this store being located on Clark Street. I would serve coffee and homemade cookies and talk with people about old Prince songs and why Radiohead is not the be-all end-all of modern music. I would have a few laptops with cable internet access, piles of funky magazines, and a mural of my favorite musicians on the back wall. I would also have an in-store cat, because my favorite old record store had its own cat. This cat would remain completely composed, content to have its head scratched at odd intervals by people with weird hair.
Instead I am here waiting for some pointless information that I will rearrange in an artistic manner and pass along to someone else who will pass it along to someone else.
It's just not as much fun.
Sitting on my desk are the following characters in the following order:
Selene from Underworld
Cobra Bubbles from Lilo and Stitch
Neo from the Matrix (gun pointed at Freud)
Trinity from the Matrix (gun pointed at Marilyn Manson)
I'm glad I don't have a camcorder because if I did I would probably make some seriously stupid little movies.
"Why no I have not. I have about as much interest in seeing The Passion of Christ as I have in seeing your grandfather in a thong bikini. If people don't shut up about that movie fairly soon I will staple popsicle stick crosses all over my body and run down Michigan Avenue in the nude. It will be filmed, and people from all over the world will flock to see The Passion Of Miller."
"Miller, don't you ever just want a hamburger? Don't you ever cheat?"
"No I don't 'cheat' because I am not on a diet, you airheaded idiot with your Big Mac and your fat-free chips and your nonstop moaning about your weight problem. And no I don't want a disgusting piece of ground up mad cow that is fried in lard. I would rather eat cat vomit. If you are really that desperate to wear a size five than you would do well to stop inhaling fast food at every given opportunity. If you're not that desperate then accept your size and shut up about it, because I think I can speak for the entire office when I say that we are sick to death of listening to your speeches about carbs and fat grams and the half a pound you lost last Tuesday. You are a caricature of the typical middle-aged diet obsessed office matron and you annoy me more than you can imagine."
"We need to look at the **finger quotes** big picture."
"Someone should tie you to the El tracks."
"Workin' hard or hardly workin'?"
"Wow that is really a witty turn of phrase you've employed. I really do appreciate that you stop by my desk every day to look at my boobs but I am workin' hard as you put it and really can't stop to listen to someone that makes me want to put arsenic in my coffee."
I am really not this mean but sometimes I just hate these people.
I know that insider trading is wrong but the girl is crafty like ice is cold and the world has become a more well-matched place thanks to her tireless efforts.
Go on with your bad self, Martha. I hope you get community service and paint lovely understated murals over the country's graffiti.
"...and at least we don't live in San Francisco."
"Hell you'd have to stay indoors lately to get away from all the queers."
"If that ever happens here I would move to another country, sweartaGahd."
"It makes me sick You know Ah-nold wants to get those fags out of his state."
I am glaring as evilly as I know how and am almost ready to throw my coffee.
This is not Arkansas - this is Chicago and people like this should not be allowed to breathe.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
There - I said it. Give me my official penis.
If I was going to fuck my boss I think I'd have the decency to do it in the executive restroom like I imagine everyone else does.
Not that I would fuck my boss, mind you. He looks like a constipated squirrel.
Still, I think it would be really great to go into work every day and know that you had fucked someone there.
Tell me that it wouldn't be incredible to watch the accounting department jam out to EPMD.
I wouldn't even need coffee if I could watch something like that.
A) buy anything from a child
B) buy anything containing chocolate
C) spend far too much money on both of the above
Somewhere there is a large squad of children who I have outfitted with polyester uniforms and new bases. When I am old and fat I will curse them with every wheezing breath.
Until then I must admit that these almond chocolate bars are really fucking good.
I was going to add that I then stood up with my arms aloft and screamed "WOOOOOO!" but that would be the act of a desperately geeky person.
This morning I saw a woman who had a sort of lipstick crust around her mouth that was obviously caused by long-wearing lipstick.
If you don't have time to reapply during a twelve-hour day then you really need to rethink your version of time management.
This is yet another symptom of a society that can't be bothered to do anything. I imagine that the next hot new product will be a lipstick that attaches to one's handbag and then applies itself using a robotic arm and lip sensors.
This is bringing out all sorts of obsessive and compulsive aspects of my personality and I'd rather not start chewing off all of my fingernails.
Monday, March 01, 2004
This is somewhat startling to me because I imagined myself either becoming completely bored or feeling overcome with desire to call a friend in order to verify that I am not a completely hopeless antisocial internet person.
If I start to use the word "meta" in everyday speech, please tell me to fuck off.
I sleep quite deeply and dream very vividly, but I think if there was a party I would have heard something.
I also would hope I'd have been invited. I make great martinis.
if I die in this wreck, my mother is going to see how dirty my refrigerator is and freak out.
My fridge is now sparkling clean thanks to daughterly guilt and the CTA.
I have a question for girls that wear metallic lipstick: Do you want your lips to look like a big greasy Firebird bumper? Metallic lipstick is gross. Even worse is the bright pink color that has fake gold flecks in it. I see it often on North Avenue prostitutes, and I believe it's called Mariah's Last Glimmer Of Hope or Whitney Smokes The Chronic.
I suppose it's better than that dark purpley dried-blood-looking shade that is favored by girls who try to channel Marilyn Manson. I believe it's either called I Am So Fucking Goffik or Peter Murphy's Bellybutton Lint.
Personally I think everyone should find some nice muted shade of red and stick with it, but then I suppose I'd have no one to stare at.
*Without frosted lipstick.
Even though your dog is fairly far-removed from vicious breeds such as the Rottweiler, I still have no doubt that it wants to rip my face off.
If you insist on carrying that thing then please stand at least six feet away from me, or better yet, lock it in your handbag.
This is the digital age.
I used to hate that shit. It was like eating soggy cardboard for breakfast.
I'd rather have a Pop Tart.
Normally I have a deep and vicious hatred for people in their late teens and early twenties because most of them remind me of those assholes from the Gap ads, but you are the poo, and I hope you know that.
Sincerely, girl with green backpack who is cool but not as cool as you.
* Note: If you have never tried a veggie sandwich from Jimmy John's then you are missing out on a truly tasty delight. Jimmy John's is somewhat pricey and a little silly, but damn can they make a good sandwich.
I may not look quite as hip, but at least I don't have their credit card bills.
Of course I didn't give him my number, but I'll admit I was flattered in a sick way.
I never really thought of myself as "stacked".
Does this make me a bad feminist?
I wish I could say it at work. These people need a little surprise in their lives.
She is a liberal and a vegetarian but not a member of Greenpeace. She believes that we should have healthy and happy people before we worry about the whales. She shaves her pits, which is something you don't need to know but is somewhat relevant to the topic at hand.
She is six feet tall and kind of skinny and consequently cannot dance very well. This does not stop her from trying. She likes basketball and baseball and arguing about music and politics. She has blue eyes and short reddish hair. She is sometimes shy.
Miller hates most television, cute Japanese cartoon items, pop music, and scratchy underwear. She sometimes thinks boys are stupid but admits to being infatuated with them.
She likes beer, shoes, tomatoes, strawberries, and expensive lip gloss.
Miller started a blog because all the cool kids are doing it. She is not an aspiring writer and does not necessarily have anything deep or profound to say, but she sometimes thinks she is funny, like most blog people.
If you honestly believe that I should not have the right to smoke in a public place, then I believe that you should not have the right to lug your irritating sloppy children to said public place, either. My secondhand smoke may irritate your lungs, but your kids give me a nervous rash.
I also believe that if smoking is disallowed in this city, then bad breath, cheap haircuts, and cars that have Bondo on them should be outlawed as well.
Not hazardous to my health, you say? The hell they aren't. I constantly choke back waves of disgust in the face of those things, and that isn't good for my digestive tract.
"Truth" followers take note: Your cancer-ridden relative? The one you mourn as you picket RJ Reynolds and rail tediously and tirelessly about the corporate devil? He or she worked hard to earn the money to willfully spend on cigarettes, and I am willing to bet my hard-earned money that, if given a chance, he or she would probably do it again.
Some people smoke. Tobacco companies make money. Get over it, and wipe that sour-assed look off of your face.
Miller would like you to know that she is not in any way affiliated with Miller Lite or Miller Brewing Company, although she does enjoy their fine product and would be more than happy to accept free samples in lieu of payment for her endorsement.