Happy early birthday to me!
You all know about my fucking Minotaur problem. I won’t shut up about it. Well, this morning, I awoke to SILENCE because the Minotaur is out of town until Thursday, and then it is apparently going on vacation to Minotaur Island to get some hot grunty Minotaur lovin’.
Needless to say, I’ve been happier than Sarah Palin at a wolf-hunting convention. Seriously y’all. I hate waking up in the morning. Every morning that I have to wake up before 8:30 a.m. is the worst day of my life. I’m not even kidding.
Luckily, I have worked for my bosses for going on 6 years now, so they have become accustomed to me showing up at work no earlier then 10 a.m. (unless I have a court appearance) and receiving emails and documents from me at three in the morning. That’s just how I roll, son.
I’ve got the insomnia, and I’ve got it bad. I love the nightlife… I like to boogie–first person to name the movie reference will be added to my list of People Not to Set on Fire–and I get most of my best work done between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. I sleep on average about 5 or 6 hours a night. I need a good big sleep once every couple of weeks, but for me, a big sleep is 8 hours…maybe 9. Sleep is dumb. Who needs sleep? You can sleep when you’re dead.
Considering my hatred of waking up in the morning, you can imagine what it must be like for me to wake up to the cloppity clop of the Minotaur. It’s like being woken up by the sound of heavy artillery fire. I wake up in a panic, like “What the fuck is going on!?!?” It’s not the best way to start one’s day, is what I’m saying.
But the Minotaur has been so silent lately, I’d almost forgotten it existed. It’s been glooooorious!
So this morning, I woke up at the crack of 9 a.m. (after having worked until 2:30 a.m., thankyouverymuch) and started puttering around the house getting ready for work. Suddenly, my doorbell rang. Of course Nate Dogg started barking like Mad Dog 20/20. So I peek out the window and see the postman walking away. He didn’t even ring twice! What an asshole. The postman always rings twice. Them’s the rules.
So I open the door thinking it would be a package from Amazon containing my friend Ernessa T. Carter’s book, 32 Candles, but it wasn’t. I’m not going to say what it was was better–I’m pretty sure that Ernessa’s book is going to fucking rock–but it was pretty exciting! I never get random packages from people. Well, rarely. A couple close friends have sent me bacon salts, packages of cheese, and Baconnaise. (You know who you are — ::cough lisaandcait cough::) But this package wasn’t from them. It was from one of my readers! (And my real estate agent***, except not really because before I could get to the whole “I’m going to buy a condo thing,” I lost my mind and had to go on medical leave. Let’s call her a friend and an Angry Black Reader.)
So I open up the package, and there’s another package inside, all wrapped in birthday paper! “What the..?” I thought. I so rarely get birthday presents–I couldn’t get my ex-boyfriend to even acknowledge my birthday, or any holiday for that matter. He thought it was contrarian and cool. (He was mistaken; it’s actually obnoxious and dooshy… but I digress.) Furthermore, I almost never get presents sent to me in the mail! All wrapped up and pretty like! (Hey, I’m not complaining. All the birthday presents I dole out tend to be gift certificates or “hey, let me take you out to dinner” cop-outs.)
Anyway, here was this perfectly nice woman from whom I did not buy a condo, sending me a birthday present a full week before my birthday! YAY! Eagerly, I opened the package… and then I died right in my own face of the laughter: