It’s Monday. Not a momentous event in and of itself, but there were moments over the weekend I wondered if I’d make it here.
To be honest, in fifteen minutes it will no longer be morning. I’ve had my coffee, I’ve eaten breakfast and even had a little protein snack, but I’m still in my robe, slogging around my house in my pink fuzzy slippers, feeling half brain-dead and jonesing for a nap like a lazy cat crossing a sunbeam.
I’m coming off of a lost weekend, as hungover-useless as any morning after a night of drinking too many tequila shooters and dancing on pool tables ever left me (yes there are pictures, no I won’t post them). I didn’t drink my way here and by lost weekend I don’t mean I have no recollection of events. On the contrary, if the memory of the past 48 hours wasn’t etched into my brain (and every muscle of my body) I’d swear I had an intimate encounter with the grill of a fast moving Mac truck.
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