First, let's get the official business out of the way:

Apparently, the Weather Gods missed my official decree from a couple days back. Back out with the parkas, in a serious way. Bastards.

Okay. Upwards and onwards:

I filed another exciting earnings story today, about a company I hadn't heard of until 9AM this morning. (The story was due at 2:30.) I swear, every day in here you have to learn to crawl all over again - crawl very, very fast. Anyways, it got ordered by the Daily Herald...which probably means I get to walk in tomorrow and get stabbed through the heart yet again upon hearing it didn't make print.

Editor's note: That's right: You've landed in the middle of another patented Dickie bitch-session. Enjoy!

I need clips, bitches! Don't you get that? No clips, no job. That simple. You give me my clips you fucktards!!

(*sigh* much better.)

The company, "Nalco Holding Co.," just went public in November, so only the big securities companies are covering it so far, which means, basically, nobody's calling a small-potatoes reporter like me back. Good stuff.

It got to the point where either I go downstairs for a decompressing cigarette session or I jump up and down on my desk and scream like a chimp. And while my associates would probably appreciate the latter, I went with the former.

I walk around the block, past the newsstand that will be selling the Dick-less Daily Herald edition tomorrow. I see the headlines on all those gossip weeklies hanging off the side: "Jenn Wants Brad Back!" "Nick and Jessica: Not Speaking!"

"Dickie and Cronkette: Deep-Sixed!"

*sigh* yup.

Seriously, what is it about Valentine's Day? Why didn't I see this coming - I have horrible luck on Valentine's Day...even when I'm with someone. It's as predictable as me pulling a devastating Killing-Spree on my buddy JD in a Halo 2 slayer match.

And as I type this, this girl sitting nearby is telling another girl all about the upcoming Biz School/J-School mixer she's helping to organize.

[Tourette's tick] [Tourette's tick]

*sigh* Thanks, Whit. Great timing.

See, this is a real personal affront on all the men, er, boys here in the J-School. It's nothing short of an assault on our masculinity. (And oh, what masculinity...) We get the email updates on this mixer and it makes us uncomfortably squirm in our seats. It's like the week-old roast beef I ate yesterday: It just doesn't agree with me.

On paper, everyone from both schools is invited. But the subtext is it's a way for the 70 percent-female J-school to meet all the rich-pricks-in-training over at the Biz School. And of course, this event has to happen just after my girlfriend breaks up with me.

I joked with the girls sitting around me that maybe I should go and find a rich Biz-school guy who'll pay off my debt. They looked at me with a straight face - didn't even blink - and one of them pointed out that the guys would recognize I'm not in their program.

I guess The Artist Fromerly Known as Cronkette was right: I'm not very funny.