beating death...sort of.

Leaving work today, I was reminded that a bunch of co-workers were heading out to get margaritas a few towns over. Seeing as I have $4.86 until the 15th, I told the group that my budget was more of a Miller High Life 40oz. quality. Hopped in my car and started heaading down the 14-mile strip to Mission Hill, and all of a sudden...nothing. No movement, no inching, nothing. Just me, the radio that was NOT informing me of the impending doom, and a full bladder. After 25 minutes and 1/2 mile, I announced to myself "SOMEONE HAD BETTER BE DEAD UP THERE." But as i approached the scene of the delay, I only caught a glimpse of the tow truck as it pulled away with a fuschia Dodge Neon. No blood, guts or gore. Not even the ambulance. I was jipped.

And now that I'm home, I have found that I MISSED the episode of Seinfeld where Susan dies. I went from Elaine wanting to be an usher to the funeral. No cheap envelopes, no poison. Nothing. What is the world trying to shield me from? I think I can handle it. I hope? Maybe there will be something uplifting on the Simpsons, followed by some non-emotional episode of Seventh Heaven. If one has been written yet.

Dinner sounded lovely at 5:30, now it's after 7 and all I want is salsa, chips and beer. I need to motivate myself into something frozen, salty and savory. Or ramen. Pasta? Food is such a lackluster need when its 90 degrees out. Maybe a pot of boiling water will point me in the right direction.

I don't know why, but finding out about Chris getting approved for his co-op today really hasn't hit yet. I'm assuming that having the money finally straightened out, my strange brain has closed the book. But I know just last night I was moping about, wondering if he misses me ever, since I am, quite clearly, irresistable. More on that some other time...

Floof coughed up a hairball on my bare feet last night. She's so considerate that way.