I've taken to reducing my life to numbers, in a fairly obsessive way. Tally marks for the number of contacts I successfully update at work (today, a whopping 23!) , amount of water I drink (thus far, 2.5 litres) , number of bathroom trips resulting from said water consumption (4) , number of times I check my email (17) , amount of time spent examining my split ends (approx. 45 minutes), listing what I eat (breakfast at Ihop: 2 sausages, 2 pieces of bacon, 2 eggs sunny side up, 2 pancakes drowned in syrup, 2 cups of coffee, one with sugar and one with Equal. One Snickers bar, one Big Kat, and a cookie. Another cup of coffee. ) It kind of irritates me that I have to categorise these things in this way, but I find it an interesting way of keeping stuff together. I'm continually amused by the anonymity of my existence in this office. Disembodied voices come up over the cubicles, belonging to groups of friends. Somebody's wife is pregnant. Another has two children. A group of people has an obsession with goldfish crackers, and argues constantly about whose turn it is to bring them. It's quite exciting. Me? I keep my work screen on Alt-Tab and peruse any free Russian learning sites I can find.
Last night I went out for drinks with Jura and co. Ryan just got made General Manager of Ferrari New England. Of course it's just a paper position, but he played it up, lounging in a corner sipping his ice tea, ordering people around. It was a good deal. I left after a little bit, as I had to go meet the boy, but I managed to forget my scarf at Redline, so poor Jura got roped into going back there to look for it and then trek all the way out to my house to drop it off. Poor boy. I wanted to ask him in for tea, but it was 2 am and my roommates were asleep-ing so I thanked him and he went back home. I retired back to the boy, who was amused by my latenight visitor. Wahee.
Anyhow, I'm off now to go meet the diminutive Russian to obtain the photos of my lovely self. Post that, I shall be meeting up with my new Russian tutor. Then my Russian boyfriend is taking me out to celebrate Women's Day. That country seeps into my life far too much. Soon I'll be fur-clad, sipping on vodka as I walk on people in my high stilettos. Or whatever else the stereotype for women is. I tried to get the boy to do a KGB accent, but he unfortunately couldn't do it, so I just let him revert to his natural accent. It's kind of like when I dated a German who had an American accent. What's the point of dating foreign boys if they're not going to talk cute? Honestly!