The past four days have been a cluster fuck wrapped in a riddle, served on burnt toast with rotting oysters and penicillin drenched cheese.
The Way We Were, saltines and Ginger Ale, my combo cure-all for stress, is doing fuck all. I have stressrhea, stomach pains that would make Satan climax, nausea to the point of making bulimics everywhere green with envy. Oh, wait, and I'm ovulating. If I were fucking, even myself, I'd be worried about getting knocked up. I'm too stressed out to take 5 minutes and spin a get-myself-off yarn. The shame. It's time to back the fuck off and re-evaluate my life.
Before I do...
I'm supposed to participate in a sleep study because of my freakish, incessant nightmares. My shrinktail hooked me up with a Sleep Daddy Doctor of Doom. Whatever. I called their office today to inquire about the process. I've never done a sleep study. I wanted all the dish and to find out if they'd let me sleep at home in my own bed. They don't. Today was not the day to hear that.
I spoke to SDDOF's sleep assistants. Lemme tell ya, that was an exercise in minimum wage isn't working. Pause-response-super-peen-egos-pause-response-hate-their-nine-dollar-per-hour-jobs-pause-response-white-lab-coat-beige-docker-wearing-pause-response-mullety-hair types. They felt so nose pickery, too, and like they eat Thai food at inappropriate hours of the day and call frozen yogurt "FroYo".
There was no way I was signing up to sleep in that clinic from midnight to 5:30 AM, to be gang banged, laughed at and boobie groped by Pip and Flip, two bitter pricktards who think driving around in two-toned black and gold Z-28's circa 1987 is hot. I'd rather belly slide attached to a rope behind a white trash 4x4 at 50 MPH on the 405 with a yeast infection and keep my nightmares.
How are you?