What kind of a week was it?
Started out on a happy note, Monday, 420, my birthday. What? That’s not my birthday? It is now. I have officially changed it. If Bruce can change his gender, and if Erica can change her mind about our team building meeting, I can change my birthday. I celebrated by eating white pizza and german choclolate cake. And had 3 doubles on the way home.
Then the disintegration began.
One day, an iceburg. Sinking the ship.
The next day: The Hindenburg: Crashing on the corn fields of rural Pennsylvania.
And finally, the A bomb,(fat boy) exploded, releasing the kind of havoc that forced me to drink 3 doubles every night of the week.
Oh the joys of deadlines.
There is truth in Robert Burns’ writing:/
I guess no matter if you are a mouse or a man, things can get hosed up.
And they did.
Naturally, this mouse adapted as best she could, and put a bandage on the wounds, limping home after the war.
And keeping in the spirit of the week, I crashed early. The crash happened at 830pm on Friday night, after, of course, 3 doubles.
To market to market to catch a fresh pig. Home again, home again, jiggity jig.
Not wanting to reflect on anything that would cause me to inflict additional pain on my brain, I decided it would be best to get some rest, and immediately took a snooze.
When I returned to consciousness, it was Sunday.
The usual chores awaited me.
I gently declined. Actually, I violently declined, and stayed in my pajamas eating chocolate covered pistachios and tacos.
I vow to do something worthwhile tonight, like watching reruns of forensic files, while laying in bed like a beached whale.
When I get to work tomorrow, I can hear it now: “How was your weekend, Wolf? Did you do anything exciting?”
And I will smile, wink and say, “Let’s just say it was a wild one.”
And so my reputation will remain intact: A crazy wild lunatic partying her ass off all weekend.
After all, it was my birthday.