Welcome, Monday. Do your worst.

The BBQ Pit
#1

Ugh.

I got drunk last night. It’s not like me; I hadn’t had a drink in almost three weeks because I was back on the diet wagon. I don’t like to drink much on school nights either. But I was watching Adult Swim and thought “Hey, I’ve got that pack of Red Stripe in the fridge. One of those would probably make Home Movies a lot funnier.”

One Red Stripe turned in to two, then three, then six. And an 18-ounce screwdriver. And I think two shots of vodka. And, as I look in the fridge, apparently half a bottle of soy sauce because I was craving salt.

Yeah, now that I think about it, I remember the soy sauce’s encore appearance in the bathroom at about 1:30. Also the fucking sour cream and onion Pringles, purchased at the convenience store 20 yards from the dorm. (I state the distance so no one freaks out that I might have been driving.) I bought those around beer four, so I probably didn’t embarass myself at the store, but who the hell knows.

So the whole binge was jettisoned and I spent a while curled up on the floor because the bed seemed too high. Then I think parts of my intestines were jettisoned. And then I fell asleep with my glasses on, which felt great when I woke up at 5:00 wide afuckingwake but wishing I could get back to sleep.

I will not mention the unfinished homework, sinus infection, Pringles-related cash shortage or the fact that I was so bored when I woke that I watched an episode of The Little Mermaid.

Also, I’m in the middle of a stress breakout, which I could normally handle, but I woke to a giant fucking zit on the edge of my upper lip. I don’t even think it’s identifiable as a zit. It looks more like I was shot in the face, got infected and then had a cold sore settle in. And I can tell it’s going to take forever to heal, which should look great in my graduation pictures. Thank you, face; I shall enjoy being immortalized looking like a fucking Evil Dead monster with herpes.

In short, Monday, you have been worse before 7 a.m. then most weeks manage to be by Thursday. You cannot possibly find a way to lay me lower. You might find a way when you become Tuesday, but that is another rant for another time. Specifically, tomorrow.

Fuck you, Monday. I wish you had a cock so I could punch it twice.

#2

Terrific closing: 9.7.

#3

Agree with thinksnow, especially on the closer there - but I would never issue a dare like that to Monday. It’s like daring Murphy’s Law to strike.

#4

Someone’s got a case of the Mondays.

#5

Never, ever taunt a Monday. Monday’s like the challenge.

#6

<Splut>

(osbcure Garfield reference)

#7

Do I have to be the first person to come in here and say that no matter what Monday or whatever throws at you, you fucking rock, Juniper?

  • tsarina, who has to type up that paper for her Holocaust history class by 4:00. Ack!
#8

So I suppose running naked through this thread wouldn’t make things better? Or do you not want to give today the opportunity to be better, on the chance that it then becomes much, much worse than it was?

I’ll be waiting;)

#9

Great. Now you’ve done it.

Whaddya want to bet they preempt the first new Buffy in weeks for some stupid Middle East report. Just because you taunted the Monday.:stuck_out_tongue:

#10

Why A Duck is my new hero.

#11

Juniper, sour cream and onion Pringles and half a bottle of soy sauce on a belly full of booze? And you’re coherent enough to type today? I bow down before your liver, which is probably as hard as concrete.

It’s been at least a dozen years since I would even risk such a feat.

#12

Hey Juniper baby, where you been lately? My heart goes out to the queen of Taboo (the game, people, not the vices!). Keep it real and don’t let the Mondays keep you down.

It’s the Thursdays that’ll screw ya most.

#13

I’m just glad someone got that.

#14

Monday, sniveling little day of the week that it is, failed to rise to my challenge and threw me no further bullshit. Pussy. Yeah, you heard me Monday; you’re a fucking pussy.

Here is my Tuesday disaster. I had a group presentation in my sociology class today. I’m not a stage fright sufferer, but I have an anxiety problem lately that makes me convinced that people are staring at me and laughing at what they see. In this case they actually would be watching me, but it certainly didn’t help that, as I walked to the front of the lecture hall with the rest of my topic group, I realized that my shirt was on backwards. Ever want to crumple up and die? Yeah.

When I read this yesterday morning, I almost gave in to the despair, but I channeled my Office Space-style hopelessness and frustration into spitting in Monday’s face and making it my bitch. I think I speak for everyone when I say “Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.”

Yes. No. Wait, what was the question?

Apparently, yes, you do have the be the first. And I find it necessary to point out that you yourself rock the dock and shake the lake, my Imperial friend.

My liver is a wizened little nut of an organ, a sadder, bitter shadow of its former self. I think that it crawled out of my body sometime during the night and called in a hit on the rest of me. I just don’t trust it any more. Not that it trusts me after this little stunt.