Five mother fucking days.
Five days in which I cannot use the phrase ‘mother fucker’.
But that’s ok, because a certain pretty person who has only threatened about 20 times that since “she brought me into this world, she’ll take me out”, is allowing me the use of her picturesque home in Martha’s Vineyard (there’s a porch! With a swing! And bikes!) for FIVE WHOLE DAYS. Even better, she’ll be there too. This means five whole days of free-loading and offered things like free meals and shoes and ice cream. This is what I have always pictured Heaven to be like; me, living as a spoiled brat, with a mother who will entertain the idea of wine tastings. HA! I made her appreciate wine tastings (and soon the world will be mine!)
Anyway, I think we can all agree that I’ve been a petulant child as of late with a penchant for malaise and tears. Ok, let’s just call me a bitch and leave it at that (the first step towards recovery is admitting that you have a problem). And we won’t speak of the very bad thing that my procrastination has led to because that will cause me to cry into my diet coke and there will be A LOT of groveling. Nope. Won’t go there. Instead, we’ll only speak of beaches and sun and the days after