Friday morning, running extra late this morning, because when I went to hit the ďsnoozeĒ button, I accidentally hit the button that blared radio station into my ears, and while in a sleep-groggy state of near panic, I hit the button that turned everything off. Forty-five minutes later, I wake up and realize that Iím late.
This isnít all that big of a deal to me, as my hours are pretty flexible as long as I get the job done, but my princess has to actually be at her school by a certain time in order to teach. I have another advantage in that it takes about two minutes to get ready. What most people wear to do laundry, thatís what I wear to work: baseball cap (turned backwards because thatís the only way Iíve ever worn my cap), a pair of shorts, sneakers, t-shirt. The hardest part of my getting-dressed cycle is making sure my belt is going through a majority of the loops.
Oh, yeah, and bathroom stuff. I wear contact lenses, so first thing in the morning, I go in and try to jam a piece of plastic into my eye to make me see better. Although this sounds like lunacy, it usually works out all right. Uhp, the bathroom door just flew open, and the blur of a human being just dashed out, so I guess that means itís my turn in the bathroom.
Have a good day, Strangelanders.
Iím sitting here on this Friday night, wondering if I have anything worth saying. Probably not, even by my own low standards in the ďworth sayingĒ department. Seems like we made it through another week, and thatís always nice, right?
I realized a bit ago that I had a gash on my knuckle. It looks like my bone is trying to escape, but I think we all know that that just isnít probable. My next assumption is that I scraped it on something some time during the week. Knuckle skin is hard to heal, because you use your fingers so much, and every time you bend, it reopens the wound. This one seems to be doing pretty good, though, so I decided to just rub some lotion on it and call it good.
I have a bottle of Vaseline Advanced Healing lotionówhite bottle, blue lid, you know the stuff. The bottle is huge, with a big red banner across the top claiming that theyíre giving me 30% more for free!
I push the little pump, expecting the lotion to drop out into my cupped palm below. Instead, the shit sprays across my desk, up my forearm, my bicep, and ending with a big dollop on my chest. You might not understand how much this pisses me off. Because I was hesitant to use the lotion in the first place. I donít like my fingers to be all greasy when Iím trying to type. Add into that equation the fact that Iím usually pouring shots of whiskey when Iím typing, and you can see how things get tricky.
And now I have this crap all over my arms and on my shirt as well. I wipe most of it off of my shirt, rub in the crap on my arms, and now Iím left with this huge spot of cold wetness over my left nipple. I donít mind the fact that it looks like Iím lactatingóIím through going out for the night, and my princess knows that I donít lactate because of all the bitching I do when I have to eat dry cereal. I mean, if I could make my own milk, I would save a bundle on breakfast.
What bothers me about the lotion spot is that every time I move, this cold, wet piece of fabric touches against my skin. Itís sort of like sitting down on a cold toilet seat, but every time you move. Or something. I donít know. I mean, itís not like that, per se, but itís that same sort of cold uncomfortable feeling.
Anyways, so Iím sitting here with a cold left nipple, slippery hands, and somehow Iíve managed to twist my pants just enough to make it uncomfortable to sitóIím on a roll tonight.
Not to worry, thoughóthe nipple will warm, the hands will dry, and the pants will soon be hanging from some ceiling fixture or another.