Do you know what the internet is for?  It’s not blogging or research or connecting with friends or networking or naked ladies.  The internet is for pictures of kitties, puppies, and duckies.  I’m not in the best mood this morning.  The puppies are helping.  This may make me kind of a ninny.  If you’re sure this is the case, I’d like to cordially invite you to fuck yourself.

Tee hee.  Did you see the ducky with the puppy?  Sigh.

The pastor brought donuts this morning.  I imagine they’re to atone for being an ass.  I’m not eating donuts.   I’m a maid of honor in three weeks.   I may be underemployed.  I may have weird hair.  I may be broke.  I may be a walking pile of misanthropy.  But at least I can be skinny, right?  That’s something.

My car broke down in the middle of a busy street yesterday.  May I suggest, o gentle reader, that the appropriate response to a car with its emergency flashers on and its driver looking forlorn is not honking angrily?  If you believe that honking is the best option, may I again encourage you to fuck yourself?  After literally ten minutes, a sketchy looking white kid in Rocca Wear stopped his Geo Metro.  He tried to jump my poor Meg (the name of my car: it’s white) and, when that failed, he and his girlfriend pushed it into a driveway.  He wouldn’t take the money I offered him and looked genuinely flustered when I burst into a very small crying jag at his refusal.  My roadside assistance, it turns out, kind of sucks balls.  It took about an hour and a half for a tow truck to come.  In the meantime, I used the bathroom at a nearby hospital’s emergency room.  The triage nurse, to whom I’d told my story in a plea for her bathroom, told me to steal a magazine from their waiting room.  I read Elle and fended off mosquitoes.  People can be awesome sometimes.  Thank you Rocca Wear, RW’s Girlfriend, and Triage Nurse.

Today I’ve borrowed my mom’s car.  I’ll be driving around in that, thinking about how awesome it is to drive a car with a cd player and about how ill I could afford last night’s seventy bucks for a tow.   Seriously.  Fuck.  Fuckity fuck fuck.

This weekend is filled with wedding bullshit, plus work bullshit, plus some volunteer work I would never have volunteered for had I known just how ridiculous my weekend would be.  Behold, my schedule:

Friday: work; tutoring appt; clean a bunch of shit no one will see anyway while my mother looks on, fidgeting

Saturday: feed cats for racists; decorate for wedding shower; attend bridesmaids luncheon; attend wedding shower; drive 1.5 hours to volunteer at a civil war battlefield; drive to a bachelorette “super cool slumber party;”  pretend I don’t secretly loathe 85% of attendees; drink.

Sunday: leave bachelorette party at 6:45 am in order to meet church ladies; drive with church ladies to a church somewhere in the middle of no where; feign interest in said church’s sunday school program; pick up car; drive home; feed racists’ cats; take sleeping pill; sleep.

How the fuck did I end up here, really?  This is ridiculous.  I have to stop complaining and go back to puppies, kitties, and folding the motherfucking bulletin.

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