I woke up this morning to find the following text waiting for me on a blinking Webster:
|Know anyone that would like to buy a vagina painting for 50 bucks? I don’t think it smells like hamster.|
How awesome is that? Also, if you feel like a gigantic $50 vagina painting is exactly what you need to compliment your tasteful decor, just email me. I’ve been thinking about broadening my subject matter.
You know what else is awesome? Sleep. I’d like some of that, please.
You know what wasn’t awesome? My weekend. I don’t have any skin left on my knuckles, I sat through Women on the Verge of Nervous Breakdown (which was only slightly more enjoyable than the not-so-musical Enron), and spent two consecutive nights avoiding vivid nightmares about today’s dentist appointment.
I’m gonna get drilled. Three times. In a row. (Like LiLo’s crotch.)
It’s not the actual drilling that’s haunting my dreams though. (And no, my nightmares aren’t filled with LiLo’s crotch either…at least not the last couple of nights.) I keep having those oh-crap-I’m-going-to-forget-and-miss-my-appointment dreams. You know, the ones where you keep checking the giant wall Swatch strapped around your waist and asking the platypus you’re riding to fly faster so you don’t get caught in rush hour traffic? Yeah, that kind of dream.
Just this morning, sometime around 3am, I was yelling at my dad to climb into the back of an unmarked, windowless cargo van so that our driver (one of the employees featured on last night’s Undercover Boss) could whisk us away to the dentist. But no, Dad had to study the built-to-scale miniature Frank Lloyd Wright homes built out of white bones that peppered the grassy median. I had to lure him into the van with Rolos and Moon Pies. I can’t quite remember why we were Skyping with Mom inside a German Hot Topic store, but I’m sure it was equally stressful and terrifying.
I was so discombobulated when the alarm went off this morning that I completely forgot to wish Rocco a Happy Blankityeth Birthday! (Happy day, Babe. I look forward to spending the next blankity years with you. But after that, Justin Timberlake has first right of refusal so we’ll just have to play that part by ear.)
Oh and it’s Monday so that means there’s a Craftastrophe. Snap this one up so you have a place to display your collection of disembodied spleens. Or keys. Either one.
Now I’m off to let a strange man shove all kinds of things into my mouth…which I usually only do on Tuesdays.