I'm angry this morning. And I like it. And I'm going to tell you why.
The BF, my people, is off to Plett this morning. So that means my wine consumption will be halved until such time as I reunite with my family. That alone is grounds enough to seeth with fury.
I took her to the airp. Yup, in this effing miserable rain. The drive there was pleasant enough. But it was my homeward leg of the trip that got me going.
My child, a sleeper of monumental proportion, lay passed out in her carseat, like a drunk outside Clapham Grand on any given morning. My conversation options were limited.
I put on the CD player. Error. Grave error. Now, don't get me wrong, Alanis rocks my world to its very core, but when one's self esteem is as deflated as, say, the daughter's blow up swimming pool/scratching post of precious cat, Alanis is possibly not the best musical accompaniment.
She sang to me. Oh she did. About how "this loss is numbing me" and how "I thought we'd be family together" but that, of course, "I was sadly mistaken". She really has a knack, you know, of making one feel pretty damn rotten.
It's needless to say that had I been pulled over by a cop, he'd have bribed me to get my sorry little state right out of his sight.
I'm home now. Drinking tea (how rad is tea?). And I'm pissed off. I'm pissed off because I like Alanis. And I like driving. And I should be able to enjoy both these pleasures at the same time without putting any lives at risk.
I'd like to be pissed off with Larry, but I'm not. I'm angry with Panty Liner for not evicting his old man ass from her headspace sooner.
Your time is up, pal. I've got charisma knocking at the door. And there's only space for one.