My give-a-shit meter is at an all time low today (everything is pissing me off, not matter how fucking trivial). My coworker is high on DayQuil so at least they’re providing some humorous entertainment now and again. I brought in an abnormally large can of soup for lunch, and the said DayQuilled one is rather intrigued by complexity of its size and shape. Glazed face and placid disposition, not unlike my attitude at my job everyday.

I was going to try to write about something creative and inspirational but since I’m feeling nothing of the sort, I could probably drone on and bitch about how good a double whiskey coke would be right now. Though I’m more of a wine person (some days) wine is not made for drinking fast, certainly not for chugging. We -the weekend bitch collective- have learned that the hard way, and still keep the definition of insanity alive on occasion by trying it again hopefully awaiting some random cure-all that would alleviate the next day hangover where you’d rather just die by firing squad starting at the ankles than even postulate living through.

French fries with copious amounts of cheese melting into an oozy pile of goodness, are not said cure-all, but they still taste amazing… until the next morning when you’re either painfully regurgitating them while pathetically stationed on the cold bathroom floor over the toilet, or rolling around in bed with a headache that could take down and elephant and enough gut rot and indigestion to ruin anyone’s day trying to piece the night prior together while the only cognitive memories are stealing flowers from the local super market, being beaten with a box of Life, and coming out of the bedroom to find a dirty traffic cone neatly place in the center of your living room…

Wine… that’ll do ya.