Temping is not my favorite way to make money but right now, it's all I've got. Especially since I have yet to receive any compensation, aside from edge-of-your-seat thrills, tuning into GSN.

A lot of the time, people mistake the word temp for the word retard. We must not be able to get a real job because of a deep and disturbing flaw. If I look a tad Down's, it's just reversing my sleep pattern to get to work at 9:00 along with a bad hangover.

A perm secretary stopped by my desk. "Soooo, HOW. ARE. YOU. DOING?" I was glad she spoke slowly as her cheerfulness was startling, especially at 10:00 am. She didn't pay attention to the response: she was using the proximity to hover over and scope out the state of my desk. "Any problemmmms?" Besides being interrupted and having trouble accessing gchat? "Not really, Ashley. Only of my own making, from before either of us happened upon the world of copier sales."

At each job, my name is a trivial detail for the first few days. I've head it all: Claire, Courtney, Sacajaweea.

There comes a time when you wonder if your mom was right about going to dental school. This happens often as my cracked back molar deteriorates more each time I eat lunch. Turkey on a ciabbatta roll had a seismic effect, teaching me, that like shy people at the beach, I should stick to wraps.

Being late when you temp is ok the first day because that's your "I'm so confused! I'm only a temp!" day. What reasonable person can locate 56th and 3rd, anyway? Is that the Bronx? I'll find a better way tomorrow.

Okay, that subject was a dupe. No fisting memoirs here. Apologies.

Anyway, since you're so curious about my life, go to my real blog, not this candyass myspace "oh maybe I'll just post a little sometimes -- tee hee!" venture: get the f out of here.