It’s another one of those gang-rape weeks. You know what I mean. The kinda week when it feels like every linebacker in the NFL has ridden you hard and put you up wet.
I’ve gotten about 3 hours of sleep since Monday–not because of any late-night carousing (surely your initial assumption), but because I’ve built up a caffieine reserve the size of a small goat thanks to the many, many gallons of Diet Coke I’ve consumed to get me through the workday. Too bad melatonin makes me nauseous, or I’d take the rest of the afternoon off and catch a nice, long drug-induced nap.
Despite the frenzied pace, though, there’s really nothing of note that’s gone on in my life. The hounds are still rambunctious, the kitchen is still a wreck, and I still love my boyfriend very, very much.
Oh. And my birthday’s coming up. I guess that’s something. I mean, I don’t make a big deal out of my b-day, but Jonno and Flynn insist that we do something to mark the occasion. I don’t think I have a choice.
And is everyone a Leo or what?
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