Seven More Hours to Go
Then she barely whispered, "oh, and, two pieces of bacon."
That is something that makes me laugh about my company every time. It is full of skinny bitches who talk about how they eat healthy food, cannot stand carbs, don't eat fat and then feel deep shame about eating french fries or bacon. Eat the damn bacon. Have some egg yolk. Shut your yap you twit.
***
Rooster likes popcorn. She doesn't like it when I clean my closet. These things are not dependent on each other.
I cleaned my closet last night. Because it is a huge closet, the size of my cubical at work (actually bigger) and I could barely open the door it was so messy. The cats had each claimed a suitcase, the floor was COVERED in shoes, and clothes were everywhere.
I cleaned it all up. It now has more floor space than my first aparment (god bless the suburbs sometimes). Rooster and Big Kitty were pissed though. They kept walking in and out of the closet looking for their suitcases. I got many looks that seemed to say, "You are the worst Fake Mom EVER."
Then while I was laying around eating my microwave popcorn dinner (which is my idea of healthy, fuck egg whites) I threw Big Kitty a kernal. She sniffed it and then flounced away. But Rooster. Was. All. About. the POPCORN.
Apparently, popcorn tastes better if you jump on it. And crunch it as loudly as possible. So loudly, in fact, that you sound as gross and ill-mannered as your new Daddy who might also pounce on his food, I cannot stand to watch honestly.
***
J is playing in a company softball game tonight. He has been talking shit to his co-workers for about a month.
I fear he is going to make a big ass of himself.
Actually, I also fear that he will not make an ass of himself and will play well. This will make his ego the size of a large elephant. And just as full of shit.
He called me at 7:45 to ask me where his knee brace is.
This calls a number of annoying things to my attention.
1. It is 7:45 and he is supposed to be at work at 8:00. And we live an hour from his office.
2. Why is it that I am required to know where every goddamn thing in the world is? Seriously, half of my time at home is spent yelling, "Your glasses (or wallet or testicles or WHATEVER) are by the sink (in your car, in the laundry, etc.)" My brain is so full of this useless crap that I can barely string together a coherant sentence but somehow I am supposed to remember where his shit is.
3. Why is that I usually know where the shit is? Its not even MINE. I don't know where my stuff is. Sad.
To be fair, he did acknowledge that he knew it wasn't my job to know where it was, but that he thought I might know since I usually do.
God. Marriage is boring.
***
Less than seven hours until the weekend.
WHOOOOO
