Ahhh, Monday. A fresh new week to conquer. I smiled, stretched out my arms, and then, like a gruesome and swift omen from God, a dog pissed on my head.
Not a joke.
Okay, well, actually my roommate's puppy missed my face with his stream of urine by about two inches. And therefore urinated on my pillow. I should have heeded the warning, but instead I got up and readied myself for work. And threw my wet, smelly pillowcase in the sink.
[God did not want me to even attempt getting through this Monday unscathed, obviously.]
As I got in my car, I was still smiling. The world was sunny and peaceful – that is, until, a completely inexplicable power outage struck just as I was about to pull into an intersection. The red lights flashed, and then died. It was my turn for a green, so I started to drive – albeit slowly – like the other cars in my lane. But the power was back on as swiftly as it had gone out, and, apparently, God thought the traffic moving in the opposite direction should have a green.
I only barely made it out of that one alive.
When I finally made it to work, Blonde Beyonce gave me the news that the Big Boss was trying to sabotage the event we had been working on for weeks – and, it was very possible that we would have to call up the volunteers we had already informed of honoree status, and tell them they were no longer being honored. Because Big Boss didn’t think they were worthy. Even though we had gone through all the other directors to make our decisions. And the event is less than a week away.
Ah, hell no.
This is all on top of our impending homeless situation – one of the roomies is fighting an epic battle with the economy and is unfortunately losing. But we can’t get out of our lease anyway, so it’s kind of like being trapped in a sinking ship full of Ikea furniture.
Also, my Americorps service ends in July, and there is not one job in all of
Hello? Life? This is not how our relationship is supposed to be! I’m supposed to be fabulous. I’m supposed to be spending my second decade of life vacationing on the beaches of remote islands, counting my butt loads of cash. And having sex with super models. And rocking four inch $600 heels on the deck of a yacht.
I’m totally going to break up with you, life.
If I keep running with this analogy, I’m going to have to commit suicide, huh?
I’m just going to get drunk and practice archery in an illegal location, like the beach at midnight. (That’s fucking awesome, right?!)
Luckily I have coworkers who don’t question my sanity – they just assume I’m preparing for the zombie apocalypse.