Life, Work

Skull-Vaginas Jutting From My Face.

Monday night my sister threw a little party at her apartment in celebration of her boyfriend’s 25th birthday. She baked an incredible guitar-shaped peanut butter chocolate cake, complete with fondant guitar picks and strings. Three of Chris’ friends showed up for the shindig, toting beer and weed. I’ve met them before but I’d forgotten about their advanced level of stupidity and capacity for asinine conversation. I was quickly reminded.

“Hey, it’s that chick with the big tits,” one eloquent male stated in reference to Kat Dennings in 2 Broke Girls, which Ash and I had been watching when they arrived. Although that comment got my back up a little bit, as I happen to like Kat Dennings, it’s not as if I’ve never been privy to the bitter truth of male commentary before. This ain’t my first go at the rodeo. Knocking back a couple swallows of Heineken, I settled in for a night of mild annihilation and annoyance.

I hadn’t slept well the night before and had worked from 5:30AM to 2PM so in addition to booze I knocked back an energy drink in an effort to remain conscious for the duration of the evening. Weed doesn’t exactly wake me up so I ended up indulging mainly in cigarettes and a couple of beers, but everyone else was feeling mighty fine. I felt like warm shit in a Dixie cup and spaced out more than once. Classy way to show my interest, right?

Intoxication, laughter, cake, candles, horrible off-key singing, etc. The cake was fucking delicious, or “boss” as my new compatriots put it. I shudder to think that in a few short days I’ll be staring down that flaming barrel of age as well. The party was fairly tame in comparison to most of my other nights out or in (I guess Ashley matured long before I ever will) and ended around midnight. Ash, Chris and I stayed up a little longer while they watched TV and I scrolled endlessly through Tumblr and tried desperately not to fall asleep on the floor again.

The next morning, when my alarm performed the audio equivalent to hauling me out of my bed by the toes and dropping me headfirst onto the hardwood, I was enraged. It had been around 1:30 or so before the living room was once again deemed my domain and I stretched out on the leather couch to pass out. I’d managed to get approximately three hours of sleep. My level of exhaustion is usually pretty evident from how puffy my eyes get, and this morning they looked like little skull-vaginas jutting from my face. Oh, how sexy.

When I finally got to work, I realized I couldn’t punch in. My boss had accidentally deleted the time clock on the back office computer the night before and neglected to call tech support. He’d also deleted the cash management program we use to prepare the daily deposits. So.. that was fun. I had to prep the damn thing old school style, and write down the numbers by hand on actual paper. Quel horreur! But in spite of the various hiccups, I emerged from my shift bone-weary but relatively unscathed. My previous experiences at the Newmarket location had apparently adequately prepared me for such chaos.

When I got home I had a scalding hot bath in complete darkness, except for a handful of glow sticks thrown into the tub. I had great fun clamping the glow sticks between my thighs and then opening my legs to let them bob to the surface in a relatively mellow burst of light. (Try it sometime, just make sure not to crack the glow sticks open in the bath or you’ll be dealing with one hell of a stain.)

I still haven’t found an apartment, not for lack of effort. I’ve got a few sexy places bookmarked and tomorrow, on my glorious day off, I’m going to call around and book some viewings. As much as I love spending quality time with my sister, I really need my own place.

Especially if I don’t want to constantly have carry-on luggage-sized eye bags.

Speak freely.

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