I shouldn't be in a foul mood. My computer was fixed (for the second fucking time) yesterday (Huzzah!). And my roommate painted a cute design on my toenails. And I have Shakespeare in the park and my birthday party to look forward to this weekend. And the weather has been delightfully cooler and misty. I love that. And I should be getting a paycheck within the next millennium for this freelance work I'm doing.
But, indubitably, I am feeling foul as a bird (har de har har ba-dum-chh).
True story. I went to bed wearing my coziest happy pants and awoke in cranky pants. huh. Maybe I'm a sleepwalker.
Perhaps part of the reason for my foul mood was the most deliciously delicious dream I had this morning, which would normally put me on a fantastical mood. But when I woke up with my cat perched on my shoulder purring in my ear and I realized my dream wasn't and never will be reality and my actual reality was a fucking cat on my shoulder, I wasn't the happiest of campers. Despite that camp award I won in 1992.
Also, my hips are fucking sick of sleeping on the ground. My back isn't too happy about it either.
You know what else thats sucks about sleeping on the floor? Whenever anyone walks within a 400 mile radius of my room, the floor shakes. And that means I shake. And when I say anyone? I mean my cats. I need to stop feeding those assholes so much.
Also also? Personal dramas suck monkey ass. I rejected you, Drama. I told you to back the fuck off. I told you I never wanted to see you again. My new friends were Fun and Bliss and More Fun and we decided that you can't play with us anymore. Because you so bring everyone down. But noooooo. Here you are, muscling your way into everything. Trying to be the center of attention. Yet again. Well no more, attention whore.
And to the asshole with your bumpin' ass subwoofers in the back of your janky ass car parked right under my window for the last HOUR, you can go run into a knife. I hate you. Go play in traffic. But before you find a tall building and jump off? Turn off your fucking car. That bass just sounds like the soundtrack to your murder right abouts now.
You know what else? I'M A TRAIN! I'M A TRAIN! I'M A TRAAAAAIIIIINNNN!!!
Right. Now that's not getting old.
I think maybe I need a good massage. Or maybe a new massager. Rosie, dear, I love you and all, but a girl needs variety.
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