Speaking of which, black people made up Kwanzaa. It’s not real. Stop pretending Kwanzaa is real.
Last night was a drunken festival at Jake’s homestead. We boozed to the best of our ability and then some. My boss called me mid-drink.
My boss: “Hey–are you at a party?”
My boss: “Ah. Is there underage drinking?”
My boss: “Good, good. You’re not going to be able to work tomorrow then, are you.”
Me: “Sure I can–by 4. I can’t promise I’ll be completely sober.”
My boss: “Awesome; just call me in the morning then.”
The next morning:
Me: “Hi Craig.”
My boss: “What’s wrong, can you not find your pants?”
haha. Oh Craig.
I got my ass kicked toward the end of the evening which resulted in a baker’s dozen mystery bruises today. I am tender. My body is blue. I’m not even mad. On our way home this morning, we stopped at a gas station to fill up the ol’ Subaru (“dykemobile”) with gas; Richard went inside for an Aquafina. Moments later, he returns to the car with a donut, a green tea, and a package of animal balloons with pump included. What a freak of nature.
Break is going to be great. I love old school crew, and we’re doing it big, let me tell you. Let’s party, girls. Put your drinking tights on. OHHH I have so many things to look forward to. Christmas, Steamboat, Judith’s wedding, Katie’s birthday–WHEW! I might start sweating out of anticipation.
Anywho, I would type a heck of a lot more but this keyboard sucks app, and typing is becoming very frustrating. Ta ta for now, chinks.
“Trust me; once you’ve been NOT raped twice, the Police Tech Rape Shield 2008 will have paid for itself.”