Dear Thursday… You are So Not The New Friday. Jerk.

All right, Universe. You win. No more Miss Schmoopy.

The world is kicking my ass today. This was supposed to be my Friday. Of a FOUR DAY weekend. Granted, I’m moving tomorrow, which won’t be fun, but it’s to live with the man of my dreams, so it’s not nearly as sucky as a normal move. Today should be relatively easy, right?

Did I just say that out loud? Whoops.

Thanks to a plethora of the best wine and food I’ve ever had, (thanks, Refugee!) I woke up looking like I’d been doing lines off a bony hooker’s ass all night long. (Why bony? I don’t know. I guess I figure it would probably be more difficult and thus make me look even more haggard. Go with it.) Apparently, 25 is descending upon me rapidly and bringing a new and awesome trick with it: hangovers from hell.

I somehow get myself cleaned up and into work, only to discover… the ONLY OTHER administrative assistant is “out sick.” For the 907th time this year. And the last thing she said to me yesterday was, “I have amazing tickets to the Nats game and we’re (her and the boss she’s shtupping) going on the company’s dime! Free booze!”

Yuh huh.

Which means that I am the only person here to support twenty very, very helpless and technologically challenged old men who are used to having their asses wiped for them. Teh awesome. I already had plenty of irrelevant crap really important stuff to do today, and now every 15 minutes someone else walks over to have me scan something, bind a presentation, turn on their computer… the yoosh. Despite the fact that my desk is already covered with inane projects and I am perpetually wearing my “No really, I’m super busy (writing this blog)” furrowed-brow expression, they keep on coming. And it’s not like they just drop off whatever they need done with a brief explanation, oh no, that would be far too easy. It’s much more fun when they also force me to have a 5-minute conversation about HOW BUSY I AM NO REALLY LOOK AT ALL THIS STUFF THEY’RE REALLY WORKING ME HARD TODAY HARDY HAR HAR. Even when I blatantly eye the sharp instruments on my desk and choose one to wield in an openly menacing manner, they remain undeterred. (They aren’t the brightest crayons in the box.)

Did I mention I was hungover?

I quickly realize that there is no way I’m making it through this morning without an enormous breakfast sandwhich, extra side of grease plzkthx. I slip out the back and drag myself outside… at which point I notice that it is raining.

But Livitluvit, you say, It was drizzling this morning. Surely you brought an umbrella with you!

I certainly did, dear reader. It’s sitting nice and snug among the many projects on my desk, of course.

So I brave the block in the rain (hooray for flip flops! My legs WERE looking a little too clean today. All those mud splatters are just the accessory I was missing!) and order my sandwich on a plain bagel, like I always do occasionally do I’ve never even seen this place before.

“No plain bagel. Blueberry or wheat.” Ugh, I think. Sausage on a blueberry bagel sounds kinda gross, but I really don’t want any HEALTH touching my sandwich.

“Wheat,” I say begrudgingly. A few minutes later I see her putting my sandwich together on wheat bread. SOGGY wheat bread. I start to say something, but I really don’t have time to wait, and there’s seven construction guys in line behind me who look like they might get a little stabby if they have to wait an extra 30 seconds for their fried egg/pancake/bacon (with extra cheese, no just a little bit more, could you just sprinkle some heart attack on there too?) platters.

I get up to the register. $3.03. I reach into the part of my purse where my change is, or was, before I decided to clean it out this morning and threw all the pennies away because I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns. Especially when I need 3 lousy pennies and I just threw some in the trash. (Yes, I spelled my name right on my SATs. Why?) Whatever, I figure she’ll round it off, and I hand her a $5 with my best someone-just-kicked-my-puppy face.

A dollar and ninety-fucking-seven cents. SERIOUSLY? I try to give her a withering stare but am interrupted by an enormous sneeze. I can’t even wither correctly today. I give up and brave the rain again, my purse now heavy with $0.97 and a soggy-ass sandwich I don’t even want. (But I’m just pig enough to eat anyway. What, I need the grease! Don’t judge.)

Oh well. At least tomorrow should be relatively painless; I’m all packed up, the Uhaul’s booked (are we gluttons for punishment or what?), and I’m officially signing over my lease to the new girl (and getting my $900 security deposit back to boot)… what could possibly go wrong?

B: I have strep throat.

Oh Universe, you are feisty today.