I quit my job, right, and I can't even put the crazy into words but ( I will try. )

So tonight I'm on MySpace, and I see that My (Ex-)Boss the Rock Star HAS DE-FRIENDED ME. IT'S LIKE WE BROKE UP. IN MIDDLE SCHOOL.

So this was my 4th of July: putting together press kits, being teacher's pet (as always), hummus and sushi, discussing the physics of the parabolic motion required to scoop an adequate amount of dip onto a weakened chip, nearly falling out of a Mercedes while switching seats on the side of the Jersey Turnpike, being handed no fewer than three electronic devices and told to figure them out, being referred to as 'Gadget' for the rest of the trip, wondering (again) what those things are by Ikea in Elizabeth, pretending to sleep through Delaware, sun in my eyes, flowers in the rest stop bathroom, seeing the capital building for the first time, reading a book while my co-worker had a psychotic break on the other side of our hotel room, tapas, chocolate mousse, sleeping in my band t-shirt, hotel breakfast, trying to memorize all the one-way streets in central D.C., riding a golf cart down the center of empty Constitution Avenue, meeting professional float drivers, sitting on the curb in the shade on the side of 7th and doing nothing in particular, Asian tourists taking pictures of firefighters in dress uniform, firefighters in dress uniform taking pictures of Asian tourists, learning how to use the soundboard, putting on sunscreen in the middle of the street, sitting on the edge of our float, just talking, silver and red white and blue everywhere we looked, the balloon handlers, that lady who gave us a bag of ice, the parade, people pulling free CDs out of our hands, running down the middle of Constitution, weaving between bikes with wheels taller than me, looking back at my co-workers and laughing, grabbing more CDs off the back of the float, having more fun than we thought we would, waving to the crowd when we ran out of CDs, the guy handing out water to all the parade performers, singing along, the Cub Scouts carrying our banner, that guy who fucked over our soundboard, all of us panting at the end of the parade route, 19th and a clear view of the Washington Monument, changing in a Denny's parking lot, the waitstaff equivalent of Kenneth the Page, peanut butter pie, pretending to sleep through Delaware again, that quote I love about jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, getting lost on our way into Hightstown, summer rain in the Wal-Mart parking lot, and sleep, finally.

The show last night was better than I expected, with the exception of My Boss the Rock Star talking after every single song. It helped that the guy who went on before him was really unbelievably awful. It helped that I was mildly drunk for the last half of the set list, too.

I have this habit of answering innocuous questions with complete and total lies, so when his manager was like, "You did a good job tonight. It was stressful, huh?" I was like, "Yeah," when what I really meant was, "No, actually, it was incredibly easy and fun, except for the part where ( you are a total fucking bitch, bitch. ) I don't know why I do this. I tend to...I don't know, live my life by reflex.

Then I spent the rest of the night telling Pixie she's not fat, and asked My Boss the Rock Star if I could read his psych books. (I can! Yes!) I have this love/hate, push/pull thing going on with him, because he doesn't so much know the difference between "boss" and "friend," and so my responses to him are really personal and vehement. When I told him I wanted a re-write of the shoddy employment contract, he started talking about how I have trust issues and he wants to be the person who shows me that not all authority figures will fuck me over, which is astute but also inappropriate and irrelevant. And now we're set up to do that thing I always do, anytime anyone in power halfway gets it, that "notice me! fix me!" thing. Like, literally, I am acting out and it is ridiculous. This is seriously the most bizarre job I've ever had. It's like a very small high school.

Anyway, what I meant to write was: I forgot how much I enjoy running live shows. I think My Boss the Rock Star is under the impression that I really really want to do PR, and he keeps wanting to introduce me to PR people, but I think what I want to do is run around managing rock shows for the rest of my life, because I am really fucking good at it.

Thursday is supposed to be work-from-home day, which is effectively sleep-two-hours-later day, but this week I am staying with furies and her Internet has been unreliable. So today I turn to my boss like, "Oh, hey, I'm staying with a friend this week and she doesn't have Internet," thinking he will tell me to just take the day off, which, why did I think that? He is a crazy slave-driving taskmaster. So he's like, "Just come in and work from my apartment." And then he noticed the look of abject horror on my face and I had to explain how much I wanted to sleep late, and he laughed at my misery because that is the kind of horrible jerk he is. Except not really. Yesterday, he was in the studio and bombarding us with emails, and like 28 emails later he goes, "AM I SENDING ENOUGH EMAILS? CAN YOU TELL I GOT MY LAPTOP BACK?" So I, being a snot, reply-all with, "I don't know about anyone else, but I'd like to receive five or six more emails from you today." And then I get more messages.

Entitled "one," "two," "three," "four," and "five."

So I emailed him back with, "I hate you and I quit."

Also, today nobody gave up a seat for me on the subway, because apparently I do not look pregnant enough in this sweater, so I had to stand all the way from 181st to Prince, and I had to climb roughly ninety-seven different sets of stairs.

So, in conclusion, I am really really tired, and I have had it up to here with this fucking groaning in the streets. I NEED TO SLEEP, RECENTLY DECEASED PEOPLE!