No shoes, no shirt and I still get serviced

Darlings, I find I get much more service when I take my shirt off. It’s a game changer in any argument. Try it.

Today, I just don’t even know! Things, stuff, goings on. New Hampshire loves a wing nut, so that’s not surprising. Santorum in the rear? This stuff writes itself. You don’t need me, jerks.

All I know is I got home somehow, in a rage fugue, after a long day of God knows what (answering stupid questions, interviewing a stupid person, attending stupid meetings, making my standard yet perpetually popular suggestion of “ambush makeovers!”), and there was a bouquet of Percocet waiting for me. Was it Valentine’s Day already? No, someone just didn’t want it. Well, I never.

I am so genuinely touched that when people seek to discard medication, they think of me. “Ah, Licketysplit will take that!”  I’m like your neighborhood health department, only I don’t make you wait for one special day to offload your contraband.

Next thing I know, I’m having a bikini fashion show courtesy of a giant Zappos box. I love when I order things yesterday and then forget all about it. And the things show up today! Which is now! A while ago that is. I went to change, and someone had been hot boxing in the bathroom. Not me, but I appreciated it. Then I aimlessly wandered around the house, forgetting why I was wearing a bathing suit. Damn it, Zappos, how am I supposed to return the things I over-ordered when everything looks so fabulous? Do I have the best taste or what? Hang on, let me tweet you a picture of how good my hair looks today.

Someone is talking at me. Why, why is that person talking? Am I listening? No. I don’t do that anymore. It makes life much more tolerable. Oh sweet Jesus, I just had to explain the term “Machiavellian.” Damn it, that was my fault for listening. OK, I slapped myself. Better.

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