Thursdays are Days
This morning I woke up, I called my sister from the phone I keep next to my bed for such occasions, and then I made toast with soy cream cheese, a tofu dog, and fruit salad, and prepared to have some lovely "Katie Morning Time Doing the Crossword Puzzle" as opposed to "Katie Eating Cereal at 730 and then going to do Yoga in a Handicapped Washroom for Eight Hours Time" ...I opened the door to my apartment to retrieve the Calgary Herald that held the crossword puzzle of morning dreams, only to find a few flyers strewn through the hallway.
Somebody. Stole. My. Newspaper.
Fuck.
I had to eat breakfast reading Cosmo. That was the worst morning of my life.
Last night Roommate and I saw "Monster in Law" and it totally made me realize what I'm excited about for next year. Essentially, I'm excited about hanging out with other people who have vaginas and wear pajamas and are total dorks. In other words, I'm excited about hanging out with about five girls, spending Saturday nights at home watching Sex and the City DVD's. Sigh. Cannot wait. Well, can wait for some aspects of next year, but this one has me pretty fucking pumped.
Speaking of pumped, I am pumped about love. I have a boyfriend and he calls me every day and he goes golfing and has a kitten. Sigh. I move in 28 days. I love timing.
Speaking of timing, I need to find some time to call Keith and tell him that I don't ever want to make out with him again, because he is short and weird and clingy. Aw hell, I'll just email him. So much easier than vocal confrontation.
Speaking of vocal confrontation, which I will be forgoing for written confrontation with a certain Queens Engineer, I officially suggest to Roommate that we meet on Sunday afternoon, around 4 PM, at a Starbucks perhaps, to write our letters of doom. We gotta do it, sister. The more I think about it, the more I realize that we can't leave the balls in his court. We must remove all of his balls, and we must burn them. And try to be decent and mature and civil about it. In Letter A, of course. Letter B is gonna be a shitshow.
Somebody. Stole. My. Newspaper.
Fuck.
I had to eat breakfast reading Cosmo. That was the worst morning of my life.
Last night Roommate and I saw "Monster in Law" and it totally made me realize what I'm excited about for next year. Essentially, I'm excited about hanging out with other people who have vaginas and wear pajamas and are total dorks. In other words, I'm excited about hanging out with about five girls, spending Saturday nights at home watching Sex and the City DVD's. Sigh. Cannot wait. Well, can wait for some aspects of next year, but this one has me pretty fucking pumped.
Speaking of pumped, I am pumped about love. I have a boyfriend and he calls me every day and he goes golfing and has a kitten. Sigh. I move in 28 days. I love timing.
Speaking of timing, I need to find some time to call Keith and tell him that I don't ever want to make out with him again, because he is short and weird and clingy. Aw hell, I'll just email him. So much easier than vocal confrontation.
Speaking of vocal confrontation, which I will be forgoing for written confrontation with a certain Queens Engineer, I officially suggest to Roommate that we meet on Sunday afternoon, around 4 PM, at a Starbucks perhaps, to write our letters of doom. We gotta do it, sister. The more I think about it, the more I realize that we can't leave the balls in his court. We must remove all of his balls, and we must burn them. And try to be decent and mature and civil about it. In Letter A, of course. Letter B is gonna be a shitshow.