February 03, 2004 - 4:55 p.m.

To the untrained eye, my career does not appear to be dangerous. I have been a pharmacy technician for over five years now. Despite the obvious threat and fears of being robbed at gunpoint or being attacked late at night in the parking lot by scumbags searching for a narc fix, a lot of other shit happens on a normal basis.

For example, I am allergic to all forms of penicillin. This does not come in handy when I am reconstituting medicine for children or opening a tote from our warehouse order covered in antibiotic dust. Then I become itchy and my tongue swells. In short, it makes for a very bad day.

There is also the fear of coming in direct contact with several medications that cause severe birth defects even years after a woman touches them and gets them into the blood stream.

OK. Maybe that is not A LOT of other shit, but it does suck.

There is also the paper cut factor. I have had some pretty nasty ones. It is also quite disgusting when someone hands me a script that is covered in mucus or has blood on it. Not very hygenic.

My story has a point. I promise.

Last night I agreed to help out at another pharmacy for a few hours that just happened to be under remodelling.

Within five minutes, I had two computers fall on my arms and a large piece of sheet rock fall from the ceiling and land just inches from by body.

I deserve hazard pay.

What the fuck is up with the scandal surrounding Janet Jackson's boob? Who gives a fuck? It is not like she meant to do it. Unlike Jacko, Janet has class and would never agree to flash millions of people, including children. She is my mother's age, for Christsakes.

It is that goddamn Justin Timberlake. I don't trust him one bit. He is so talentless it is frightening. The mere sound of his prepubescent voice sends me into convulsions.

My cats hate me. They love me until Dan gets home. Then they are like "Fuck You" and each will crawl into his two arms, only tolerating my presence, but not happily.

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