Sunday, August 16, 2009

The dark place is dark.

I’m in the dark place (that’s what he said).

My work situation is not ok. It has leprosy. It has AIDS. I’m one more email from an editor away from tenderly caressing the knives.

After I sent in my articles on Friday I was expecting to take a nice, long coma-nap and then drink my life away. Instead, all within the same hour, my editor sent back the articles and asked me to expand them by Monday (fuck!), my prof emailed me to tell me to redo the bibliography in a new style format (FUCK!), and my magazine editor emailed me with 40 more articles to edit by the end of the week (FFFUUUUCKKK!).

All of this on no sleep.

Save me, Allah.

My immediate plan is to dig a big hole and go lie in it. Like a dead body. Or Saddam. You’ll find me in 6 months with a full beard.

After receiving all of these emails at once, I just kind of lay on the couch in a daze for a few hours, waiting for the heart attack to take me to a better place. Do you think heaven has jungle sex? And poutine? I hope not, because I’ll be really jealous when I’m burning in hell.

I had to cancel a movie date with FrogBoy that night thanks to the gentle fisting of my 3 internships. Instead I stayed in and stared at my laptop, willing it to explode. At 11pm I figured food might be a good call, so I had a deep fry platter delivered to my apartment. I'm not joking. The anorexia portion of my breakup is now but a distant memory. On the bright side, tits.

I met my grandpa for brunch yesterday. He brought me 3 jars of peach jam. I’ll add them to the stockpile of jam in my freezer. My freezer currently consists of about 30 jars of jam, two bottles of gin, and a 10lb bag of corn.

I went for another run last night. CapitalCity is going through a heat wave and there was a smog warning, but bitch needs her ass to look edible in a bikini when she goes to Portugal in a week. How else am I going to have a Lisbion experience on the beach? Note to self: purchase more bikinis.

Anyway, my run was brought to you by the letter “I” and the number 2. For “immediate regret” and the number of times I leaned on the guard rail and dry heaved into the canal. Poor choice, Peach. Poor choice.

I meant to do more work when I got back from my run, but I was sneepy-sneepy. I guess 3 consecutive days of no sleep catches up with you eventually. So I got into bed at like 10:30 (on a Saturday. Wooo awesome!) and set my alarm for 6am. Oh right, I forgot that I’m a zombie now. At 1am, after lying in bed having a heart attack over my work for 3 hours, I finally turned on my tv and tried to trick my brain into falling asleep with bad tv movies. I found a terrible mid-90s Gwyneth Paltrow movie, which by all rights should have made me hit REM, but no dice. 2am. I finally caved. Dug out my old sleeping pills from a few years ago, back in the day when I hated my job so much that I required prescription drugs just to function as a human. I had to be up in 4 hours, so I cut the pill into thirds and swallowed only one jagged little piece (allusion! Look at me!). I got back into bed, saw a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken, and within 5 minutes was passed out and dreaming of buckets of dirty bird.

I woke up at 9am. I guess it takes 3 hours of CBC Radio 1 to wake a person out of drug comas. Fucking, bloody, douchey HELL.

On the bright side, today is the inaugural SANGRIA SUNDAY with MortalCombat!!!

That’s right, bitches. MC is back from South Africa and we have 3 months worth of gossip to catch up on. Which is why the plan is to park ourselves on a patio at noon and drink Sangria until we get sun stroke or alcohol poisoning or both.

And then I’ll come back home and edit 40 articles.

Drinking helps me.



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