the end of an era.

Sometimes, I am the worst.

Or, as I prefer to look at it, sometimes the winter harrasses me to the point of near workplace panic attacks and complete seasonal bitchiness. To cope, I get wine-drunk on a Monday night, thanks to Lucky Duck reisling and forgetting to eat anything other than a Marie Calender frozen mac'n cheese all day, with my friends when I'm supposed to be studying for the GRE test that happens in less than two weeks and cost a cool $160.

This NEVER would have happened in the summer.

So yeah, that's what's up with me.

I'm wearing a silky shirt right now, begrudingly pulled in desperation this morning from the dwindling supply of clean shirts in my closet. It's at bare minimum two sizes too large for me and a ghastly shade of dark greenish blue. Slim pickings.  It's making me feel like a cross between a circus tent and a goddamn douglas fir. Not pretty.

Pretty much the only truly productive thing I've done today is doodle these creepy little faces into the corner of the schedule I made for myself regarding all things work related this week. 

If you look really hard, you'll find that I'm not very ambitious about my time management skills.

Meh.

However, if today's a bad day due to a hangover riddled with guilt, then yesterday was even worse due to trying to process too much neurotic thinking about the past at once, coming out of an intense fight with Manfriend on Sunday evening, and trying futiley to rationalize to myself why it's perfectly fine that I'm such an asshole and everyone else can fuck right off. I felt dizzy and disoriented all day. Yeahhhhhhh, one of those.

Settle in and let me tell you a little tale of my woes.  

When I was 21 years old I started smoking cigarettes to look cool. I was/am a fucking idiot. I was a bartender living on a white-trash island of drunks in Lake Erie and I wanted to be a part of that community sooooo bad.. because, well, it was fun, really, really fun. I also needed an excuse to spend more time with a boy I thought was cute, and he smoked cigarettes, Camel wides, which is just so fitting. 

I started puffing away when I was drunk and could bum one off of someone. Or when I needed a break at work, I'd go sit out back on the steps and puff away by myself for a blessed few moments of peace. And then I started buying my own packs before too long, and it was allllllll downhill from there. I didn't even know how to inhale for probably three months after this whole ordeal started and I definitely didn't realize what an ass-hat I was about it until I was actually already inhaling and hooked....On the boy, Terry, and the cancer sticks, which are probably honestly the two most unhealthy things I've ever done to myself in my life.  He's a story for another time, or more aptly, never.

What kind of intelligent, relatively healthy, active 21 year old just ::picks up:: smoking like a goddamn hobby? The kind that apparently also likes to tolerate being treated like shit and made to feel worthless!

Whatever, like I said earlier,  I'm an idiot. Chugging forward:

Three years later, Summer of 2010. Now those were times.

At this point, I've matured,  I've moved on, I'm in an alarmingly healthy relationship with my best friend, but yup, you guessed it, I'm still fucking puffing away on those cancer sticks. Which Manfriend despises, causing some serious dissent in otherwise the most blissful of times.

So I was basically on a cigarette diet, I'd shaved it down to about one pack a week. I mostly never smoked around Manfriend- I was half-assedly trying, I'd go two or three days without a smoke break, no big deal.

And then the bottom dropped out.

The way I remember it, I made a few drunken allusions towards trying to inxnay the abithay. Then one day I got an email from Manfriend, saying he was quitting chewing tobacco, hence, I would be expected to stop smoking. Like I mentioned I was going to do anyway... multiple times... without doing so whatsoever.

'FUCK,' I thought to myself, 'I'm not ready!" But I decided despite feeling pushed into this, I would try. For manfriend. Certainly not for my own health, or the way people percieve me, or financial reasons. I was doing it for him and everything was GREAT and it was hearts, stars, and horseshoes, clovers, and blue moons, pots of gold and rainbows, and the red balloon. Peachy fucking keen. For about three weeks.  

And then I got drunk. It was wasn't that big of a deal if one of my friends gave me a cigarette. I wasn't buying them. It was harmless, just one. It's never really just one.

I started slipping up more and more and feeling kind of deceptive and sneaky, but not in the cool Sydney Bristow, spy sense, in the guilty, I'm-a-fucking-liar, letting-my-manfriend-down sense.

And then I started to feel really resentful, which is kind of a scary feeling because it's like a hybrid of feeling angry and guilty and entitled at the same time. I started thinking along the lines of, "Manfriend is trying to change me, and I'm making all these sacrifices like, like smoking! Which is a part of me, OMG I"M LOSING MYSELF!"

This was my thought stream:

OMG I NEED A CIGARETTE-> I can't have one because of Manfriend->  ahhh, smoking-> part of me-> manfriend wants to change me-> OMG I'M LOSING MYSELF-> AW HELL NAW.

And then in my mind I'd have the GIRL POWER head-bob going and dust off the rhetoric from my women's stuides degree and get all  "Ain't no man gonna change me," empowerment shit.

This went on for several months.

And on Sunday, it so happens, I got caught. Without a shadow of a doubt, busted. I rolled home from following my friend Erin to the car dealership to drop off her car and driving her home, and apparently guilt wasn't the only thing I reeked of.

Erin and I had parked in the parking lot of a Japanese Hibachi Grill, GOTTEN OUT OF MY CAR and sat on the curb IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER so that we wouldn't smell like smoke.

It didn't work because Manfriend is a detective.

Anyway, without going into all the details of our fight in which I honest-to-god started to pack a bag to drive to my house for the night, I've come to one conclusion.

I think I really have to quit now.

HEAVY sigh.

BUTTTTTTTT... I think I've finally figured out a way to justify it to myself. Maybe Manfriend wanted to quit together because we both had/have habits that are going to kill us, make us smell nasty, make us look ugly, and just generally bring our demise. I'm not even being dramatic people, DEMISE. I love Manfriend and he loves me and why shouldn't we try to be our best selves for each other? If you think about it, the prospect of wanting to be around for the person you love for the duration really isn't too much to ask. 

PLUS, Manfriend isn't some The Hamburglar character in a weird striped jumpsuit trying to steal me from myself, Terry was.  And I will be damned if I spend another day doing something that was his in the first place.

So, fine, I'll stop trying to make my lungs look skinnier by filling them with tar until they turn black, even if it's every now and then, on the sly, and maybe I'll get addicted to something healthier, like exercise*. After all, I do need some coping mechanism, I've got an incredibly addictive personality. It's why I don't gamble.

*(but let's not push it, I feel I've made enough leaps in the health and wellness portion of my life for one week).

Cheers to my renewed interest in my own health!

XO Sare

PB&J and Gumballs.

Meh.


I'm not really feeling it today, kiddos.


Just to bring things up to speed, I signed up for the GRE last night. I feel real heavy today.




I'd like to say something along the lines of "I need a Xanax," but since I've never actually had one, I don't really know if that would make me feel any better whatsoever. But, judging from the way everyone raves about prescription drugs, I'm thinking that's a bandwagon I may want to hitch a ride on for a while. Until shit gets expensive, because I don't have any money at present time.


SIGH.


I'm bad at being poor. I mean, I was good at it in college, but all I really had to do was pay rent and pay to get myself drunk on the weekends. Better times. I guess I'm really not even that poor, I do make well above a 'living wage,' whatever that means. But, I have needs. I get hungry now and I want to eat something other than gumballs and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.


Which for about four months in colllege, I did subsist on PB&J and gumballs.


Sophomore year, I was living with the laziest girl I've ever met and the damaged girl who let her coke dealer move in with us. She kicked him out on weekends when her boyfriend from home would come up. There wasn't a whole lot of dialogue going on between us. Lazy roomate ended up getting her masters as Stanford in Molecular Genetics. Damaged roomate dropped out and went back home to her mother. I haven't spoken to either since we lived together. So much for forging last bonds, eh?


We had a cute little apartment right off campus with a screened-in porch, that was its best feature. People could come and get bamboozled with me on the porch without disturbing the two shut-ins. It was a total slum and we overpaid dramatically for it, but I didn't care. I fucking loved that place because it was mine, I'd work forty hours a week and take twenty hours of class a term and not bother with sleep a lot of the time so I could still get drunk with my friends.


Hardcore, eh?




Anyway, around spring, I think it was April, I finally broke up with the boyfriend I had had virtually since I got to college for the last time and it was a little rough. As in, he had paid for all of my food and booze for almost two years and now I was fucked. Something had to give, and I obviously still had to get drunk, it was college.


I'd eat two PB&J's twice a day. Once a week I'd treat myself to Subway. I've never looked better. I was always hungry, but I got better grades that term than I ever had before and ever did again. I was a total shit-show. All the sudden I had time to spend with my girlfriends and we'd do stupid crazy shit like busting every liqour/wine bottle from the year on the mantle in the middle of the street while screaming. I was underage and reckless and when the cops came I fled while the officer tried to get my friend Courtney's number as she swept the glass off the street by the dim glow of his squad car's headlights. I'd walk home alone at night at four in the morning drunk as a skunk, skipping, daring the gangbangers I shared the sidewalk with to 'Fucking try and start something with me."


I was in bad shape.


Jordan, ex-college-boyfriend had, near the end of our relationship, bought me a HUGE box of over 1000 gumballs at Sam's Club in an attempt to make me happy. He knew me well, I adore gumballs, but it didn't work. For months after our breakup I'd scatter candy dishes of green and yellow gumballs around the apartment in a feeble attempt at hospitality. I hate green and yellow gumballs.


All good things must come to an end. In June I left for New Hampshire, where I taught little JAP's to kayak. It was a good summer. I spent six hours a day on the water and ate at a buffet three meals a day. I got paid to sing at campfires and preach girl power. I didn't drink, didn't need to. I snapped out of my crazed lifestyle for a while. It was kind of nice.

I still got crazy when I went back to school in the fall, but never like I did that spring.
I can't buy a huge box of gumballs and then live on a loaf of bread/jar of jelly/can of peanut butter each week anymore, but at least once, I could. And I did.




Something about living that way is okay when you're in college that's not okay when you're three years out, use more of your paycheck to pay bills than to play, and stop drinking heavily on weeknights.


I think...... this may be... nah....... well, maybe....... growing up?




Sometimes I miss that me.

XO Sare

Let's talk about breakfast meat: A beginning.

It's presently beeeeee-youtiful outside.

The snow's a-fallin'. And as much as I'd rather admire it from the comfort of my couch, curled in cashmere, sipping a heavily-spiked Irish coffee with a good book and a roaring fire in the fireplace, I'll settle for the white- white- world from my cubicle window. At least I have a window in here, right?

Snow is absolutely lovely, albeit semi dangerous to drive through. And by semi, I mean absolutely.

I'm choosing to have a good attitude about the current five inch dump of white, fluffy sediment from Mother Nature, and judging from the overwhelming general bad attitude on Facebook this morning, I'm the only one spinning this thing to the positive.

Yay, me.

There is something else highly responsible for my foolhardy good mood this morning, and it's a breakfast meat.

That's right, bacon, the candy of meats.

My love for bacon knows no bounds. If the health food craze is lost on me, bacon is largely at fault.

There are things I would do for a well-fried piece for bacon that I wouldn't do to save a life, and I'm completely serious about that.

Last night, in a rare and fiery bout of wisdom, I decided to fry up and bag some of the breakfast meat I hold dearest of my heart for this morning, to encourage a better attitude about life. It's done wonders.

Wonders.

So, I may have slid through a stop sign this morning, barely missing a police K-9 unit SUV, AND had the fear-shakes when I did finally make it work. However, I like my outfit, my hair looks cute, and I had bacon this morning.

Everything is going to be okay.

I like gas-station hot dogs.

Before I delve into the weird that was my weekend I'd just like to let you know that since the last time we talked I've acquired a very mini-sized tube of deodorant for my purse. It was the only responsible thing for an otherwise almost completely irresponsible person to do. So, even though I may choke on unsuccessfully dry-swallowed pills in the future, I will also have the peace of mind that if I die, I will indeed NOT be the smelly person at the office, even if I forget to apply antiperspirant before I dash out the door in the morning.

Whew.

Also, my sister and I, enroute to Columbus, Ohio, hometown of my beloved alma mater, for one final Christmas of the year, discovered that we both loathe two-door cars. Call us old biddies, but we both believe that the sedan is where it's at. I mean, driving a coupe is like admitting you have zero or one friends, you're cheap and will never offer to drive, or you don't give a shit about the comfort level of your passengers. Four door cars just make everything easier. I just need to know that I can access everything in my backseat easily, without having to awkwardly lean over the front seat with my ass in the air trying to find that other shoe... or something. Plus, a spacious backseat? I don't hate it.

On Sunday morning, Beth and I decided that after drinking heavily, sleeping in a house that I'm highly allergic to, and getting well below five hours of sleep, we were so in love with our manfriends that we would rise at seven in the morning to begin the journey back to them.

 Things got rullllllll weird.

 Mostly, me. Plus, Beth is the anti morning person to my schizoid total morning person... Usually when we're mixed together before noon or so, it will end in a verbal altercation that turns into a physical altercation.... that leads to one or both of us being physically or emotionally scarred for life... it's a pretty volatile combination. I'll just have you know right now, though, that we both survived a weekend of six driving hours together without any real bitchiness. Which is big. For both of us.

Now, let’s talk about a little thing called false advertising.

I have a problem with products that proclaim they will give you energy. AKA when I consumer said product, no matter the conditions,  I get the jitters, start shaking like a leaf on the tree, start wigging the fuck out for about two hours, and then crash and am completely worthless for the rest of the day. And I know this about myself. And I still decided I needed to take a five hour energy shot at 7:30 in the morning on Sunday. For S's and G's, since I wasn't even driving. Because I just can't say NO to impulses and urges. Ever.

Whatever, I also wolfed down a gas station hot dog before the sun was up, loaded with onions, ketchup, mustard, chili, and cheese, so I had basically already taken my own life in my hands.  Because I obviously lose any semblance of shame when I'm hungover.

These products that claim massive amounts of energy! without a crash! DO NOT give me energy, they make me loopy as all get-out, and then they make me feel within inches of death for the next 12-24 hours.

Anyway.... things got a little wacky for us at some point during the three hour drive and we had, I shit you not, this conversation:

Sara:  'ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I feel all flooby and I can't stop making weird noises.'

Beth: 'Yeah, you are making weird noises. You're actually acting like you've lost your mind.'

Sara: 'gahhhh, glooooody dooooody bahhhhh rummmpp pa pa pump."

Beth: 'When I'm babysitting I real like to make the children make animal noises.'

Sara: 'Uhhhhhhhh, I'm too hopped up on five-hour energy to fully grasp how not right that is.'

Beth: 'My favorite animal to have them imitate is a monkey.'

Sara: (cracking up/losing it) ‘You know what, you're fucking odd. I don't know why anyone would let you watch their children.

Beth: ‘Just last week, a little girl I babysit for named a poop after me.’

Sara: '.... And I think I'll climb into the spacious back seat of your lovely SEDAN and start acting like a chimp.'

I hope we never reproduce.

XO Sare

Practice makes perfect

I almost just died and before I tell you what happened, you should know that my last thought had I died would have been regret at never managing to master personal hygiene.

I was just reminded that I'm a mere mortal in one of the most disturbing ways, ever.

Earlier, around 12:38, when I got back to my little cubicle after lunch, I did my post-lunch routine of taking my vitamin and allergy pill. Only today, I didn't have any sort of liquid to to help wash them down. "No Problem," I thought to myself, "My ability to swallow pills without water is pretty impressive, I'm practically a dry-pill-swallowing Aficionado, this will be no problem whatsoever."

I pysch myself up a little and then go for a kill. I same-time it, hoping for the best.

As planned, the pill swallowing mission was successful and went off without a hitch.

I've mastered this task.

BOOM.

I continue my post-lunch routine of catching up on emails and checking facebook on my phone. I"m fine. Everything is status-quo.

Or so I thought.

I prepare some papers and take them up to the copier to scan to my computer.

I line them up, press scan, and cough.

I cough and then it feels wrong, so I cough again.

This time something unlodges itself from my throat that I didn't even know was lodged in my throat, and makes its way up my esophagus and back into my oral cavity. This is fucking weird. It tastes TERRIBLE, like worse than anything I've ever tasted, and it's not phlegm. I was expecting phlegm; it’s winter, I’m perpetually runny, and I have allergies. I immediately go into a panic sweat. It's literally like every single one of my goddamn pores is opening and expelling sweat at once, for a split second.

WHAT IS THIS CHOKING ME AND APPEARING IN MY MOUTH, UNINVITED?

I realize in that instant that I failed to apply deodorant this morning. I'm an adult, for all intents and purposes, and I can't even manage to put on deodorant in the morning? The HELL? I wonder how many times I've failed to put on deodorant in the time that I've worked here and not even noticed. What if I'm the smelly one? What if my cubicle stinks? OMG, I can't live with the embarrassment.

I'm freaking out about possibly being smelly and also the thing that just appeared in my mouth.

I'm dying.

Focus, Sara.

 I look around to see if anyone is looking at me and I reach into my mouth to investigate.

IT'S MY PILL. My sonofabitch allergy pill. Mushy and chalky and DEFINITELY not successfully swallowed.

I'll probably try again tomorrow.

XO Sare

I miss my shoes.

To say that Manfriend's 130 pound English Mastiff isn't well trained is a VAST understatement.

Luckily for her, she is a lover. She wouldn't so much as nip a soul. She'll bark, she'll act whackadoo chasing her tail around the living room, she'll slime you with an amount of digusting slobber that doesn't even really seem possible to be coming from a single mouth, but, to her credit, she is not by any stretch of the imagination mean or vicious.

Unluckily for her, she's earned the nickname "Monster." And she's now, officially, on my shit list- And for the moment, she's the only one on it.

I'm currently in mourning. I like to think of myself as a particularly non-materialistic person. I guess I had the pleasure of fancying myself that way when I still had material possessions of value that I could choose not to place at high value. That plan, my friends, has gone to shit.

   I'm about to fucking kill a dog.


   Let me explain.


  I am a dog person, I love dogs. I love big dogs. Dogs always have the right attitude. I love the dopiness, the codependency, the walks, the snuggling. I love the way their faces and ears are so soft and you just sink your nose into their fur and it smells so doggy. They sense your moods and know when you need comfort and they can be taught to do just about anything. I love coming home to a wagging tail. I'm into animals as a whole, but I love dogs the most.


However, right now, my already low patience threshhold is being pulled and stretched to its outermost boundaries and I'm SOOOOO very close to totally losing my fucking cool.


I may have met a dog that even I, the eternal dog lover, cannot handle. And she's mine.

Last night, by means no short of supernatural, Hally managed to fenagle her way out of the safety of her crate. We only keep her in a crate at night when we're at my house and the thing, quite frankly, is massive, as is everything we have to buy for her. Seeing as how she's a 130 pound mastiff. That I'm deathly allergic to. Neat.


Hally, the little angel, managed to weazel her way out of said nightime domecile and proceed to fucking GO TO TOWN on everything in sight.

And my my my, does she have expensive taste.

Not only has The Monster chewed to the point of near irrecognizability multiple articles of my clothing, the majority of the furniture in Manfriend's house,  a pair of Rainbow sandals, a pair of Nine West flats, a pair of Steve Madden Pumps, a pair of Michael Kors heels, and a very nice coffee table; she's also now torn a hole in the wall of my RENTAL home, trashed numerous keepsakes, scratched excessively an original wood door from when my RENTAL home was built in 1895, eaten a shelf right off a wall, and destroyed a DVD that belonged to my roomate. As if that's not enough, she's also managed to find a way to bust herself out of the secure cage in which Manfriend and I put her on the rare occasion we stay the night at my house.

The pairs of shoes she defiled of mine were just that, only shoes. I didn't wear the heels that much. But, they were dizzyingly expensive, luxuries from a past life that I can no longer afford, and don't know when I will again be able to do so.

I've tried to take deep breathes all morning and focus on the task at hand, hurrying home to deal with the disheveled remains and acting happy to see her.

But, I.... just....can't deny it. I am fucking livid.

Manfriend reminds me sometimes that she's really our dog. That I only refer to her as his dog when she does something really distructive, and as our dog when she's being cute and calm. Maybe that's true. But I sure as shit didn't get to take my go-around at training her when she was a puppy, so I think I deserve to be able to call her his dog when she's bad.

Animals, man.... they're ANIMALS.

I wrote that little ditty yesterday when I was still seething. I spent last night with Hal and we cuddled and essentially made up. As much as you can make up with a 130 pount lump of pure muscle that hogs the bed and doesn't have foggiest idea you were even upset with her.



But I still duct taped her cage door shut last night.



Just in case.

 XO Sare

GOOD morning.

Happy New Year, by the way.

I'll soon get around to posting my GOALS for 2011, since resolutions are soooo five years ago, but I guess this also means that if 'a halt to procrastination' was on that list, I'm already failing. However, the joke's on the list because since it isn't published yet, I can still omit lines. Bahahahaha.

But enough about that, let's shift focus, shall we? Whew.

I wake up early.

I wake up early willingly and not just in the fuck-I-have-to-get-to-work  sense. I like it. It's kind of sick, but the morning is my shit.

I relish in watching the sun languidly make its way over the horizon, then the tree line, then the clouds. I sip coffee, read the paper. I'm productive. I sing in the car on my daily 7:20 am commute. I'm the cheeriest person at the office in the morning and sometimes, I suspect my co-workers are scheming to knock my awake-level down a few notches. Or plotting to end my life. It's that bad. I don't even like anyone at the office that much, but I just can't turn down the morning cheer. (Unless I had a wine night that previous evening, in which case I'm usually trying to disguise the shakes and/or convince myself that I should at least attempt to survive the day.)

I get more done in the hours of 7-10 am then most people manage to do all day. I am the nails-on-chalkboard annoying person that's always in a good mood before you've recovered from the sound of your alarm rousing you from that weird and mildly disturbing dream you were having.

I am a morning person.

There is one problem with this chronic, jovial, early-morning-riser song and dance.
 

NO ONE else I know is blessed with the same sentiment as I am regarding the being awake side of conscienceness in the early-morning hours, especially Manfriend.

Believe you me when I say that entire days have been ruined between me and Manfriend as a result of my unrelenting early-morning-pep.

However, not for lack of trying. I put in a legitimate effort at least once a month to sleep in, but I never make it past 8:30. MAYBE  9:30, if heavy drinking has been involved... and even then... not so much.
 

Butttttt... it gets worse. You know in Big Daddy when that adorable little kid pisses the bed and wakes Adam up to tell him and Adam just lays down a layer of newspaper and instructs the child to go back to sleep, himself falling right back into bed? Remember how the little kid keeps rolling over and over and tossing and turning until Adam Sandler finally gets up, yelling and cursing? And it's kind of worrying that he's an adult and really thought laying newspaper down would work, but also a little bit heartwarming that he's so inept at parenting, but giving it the old college try? Well I"m the little kid. Minus the peeing the bed.

Once I'm up, if I try to stay in bed, I will fucking toss and turn and become the most irritating being in existence. I can't help it.

Manfriend would sleep until noon every. single. day. if it was acceptable. And stay up until 1:30 in the morning or something equally unrealistic and unbeleivable. Except, I've found, for people my age, it's really not that unreasonable. At all. Which is disconcerning for me, because am I already on my way to the early-bird special and those weird geriatric space-age-looking sunglasses? I really don't see the problem with it.

Usually the exchange goes something like this:

7:37 am, Saturday Morning

Sara: (Opens eye, stretching) Thinks to self "Ahhhh I just slept an extra hour, GAH  I love Saturday. I'm hungry. I need to pee. I'm bored. What's Manfriend doing? He's sleeping. I should wake him up so we can hang out!  WAIT! Don't wake him up yet, he'll be cranky, he'll be TICKED, the rest of the day will be filled with badness. Close your eyes, Sara, TRY to go back to sleep."

7:41 am, Saturday Morning

Manfriend: ZZZZZ

Sara: Thinks to self "Wow, he's really sleeping. Is this creepy? I'm watching him, that's creepy. I'm SO bored. I should go pee. I'm hungry. I wonder if Manfriend would be cranky if I woke him up now. Maybe he's hungry. He doesn't look that hungry. Yet. " Pokes Manfriend.

Manfriend: ZZZZZZZZzzzzZZZZZ

Sara: Gets out of bed to scavenge the fridge/use the bathroom/mill around the house aimessly.

8:02 am, Saturday Morning.

Sara: Thinks to self " I AM SO BORED. He's practically waking up. Did he just open his eyes? He's going to wake up. I'm starving. I. MUST. HAVE. FOOD. ::Shaking Manfriend:: "Babe, babe, are you awake?! IT'S MORNING!"

Manfriend: "Ehhhhhhh" Rolls over

Sara: "Are you hungry too? I'm starving! I had this dream last night where I was in a hot-air-balloon and the trees were made out of lollypops and then we went to this car dealership and the cars were all made out of cotton and I was like, 'will that cotton hold me?' but then the cotton made it so no one got hurt in crashes and so then we decided to drive to Japan......

Manfriend: Pulls pillow over head.

Sara: Shakes Manfriend violently. "BABE!!! LOOK, IT'S DAY!!! THE SUN IS OUT!!!"

Manfriend: "What time is it, Sara?"

Sara: "It's practically noon, look where the sun is in the sky. The day is basically half over. Wake up and feed me."

Manfriend: Looks at phone, realizes it's 8:04 am. Makes angry sounds. Rolls over and attempts to sleep while I continue to badger him for the next 45 minutes until he is finally convinced to get out of bed, cranky and broken.

CONCLUSIONS:

1. I am an asshole.

2. I become incredibly dependent on Manfriend to meet my basic needs on the weekends.

3. Someone could come and kidnap Hally and me at any time between the sun rising and noon and Manfriend wouldn't even notice we're gone until it's too late and we're murdered and chopped up into little tiny pieces and burned and then dumped in a landfill, never to be found.

4. I have an overactive imagination.

5. Manfriend should go to bed earlier so he can wake up earlier.

May your mornings be forever merry.

XO Sare