I will, I will, I will! weigh in on the UCSD PR nightmare that seems to get worse with each day, and which makes me want to bubble-wrap my little girl before I launch her into the dangerous territory of adulthood.  But for now, I’m busy faxing and re-faxing and re-faxing again, reams of paper. I make love to a fax machine every day and quite frankly, this has got me wondering—as I fix another god^$(#(@ * motherf!*%$#^$#%^&$%! blasted paper jam—at the meaning of my life.

On Monday, I decided it was meaningless and cried twice. On Tuesday, I confirmed it was meaningless, and cried three times. I mean, holy smokes, folks: I DO NOT CRY AT WORK. It’s against my personal code of conduct. And the a realization that my career consists of minute-to-minute use of a nearly obsolete technology is that much more humiliating.

But. I can write! Right? That’s got too count for something. No?

So in the midst of all this faxing and crying and crying and faxing and feeling generally boxed in, I continued to vent my frustrations about John Mayer. You see, it’s more advisable for me to aim my freak-out at him, than it is my lovely husband. Fewer repercussions, if you know what I’m saying. Plus, Sam’s a terrific guy while Mayer is….well. You just need to head on over to Culture Lust and read on.