Extreme bloat and cars humping.

I'm so very, very glad that tomorrow is Friday... I don't know how much more I can take of this work shit this week.

Tomorrow is "Spirit Day" at work, where you get to pay a buck to wear jeans and a Bucs t-shirt or jersey. I will gladly wear jeans and my oversized Alstott jersey, as Botanicus has reached epic proportions as a result of holiday gluttony. Yes, my friends, we have yet again reached critical mass!

Of course, my jonesing for Chicago hard rolls slathered with honey roasted crunchy peanut butter this week hasn't helped, either. Oh well.

So, earlier tonight, I realized just how fucking impossible it is to reach someone's house when streetlights are placed along the road at a rate of one per square mile. Nonetheless, I had a low-speed adventure in the new car (name to be determined), tooling around the IRB, miraculously finding the house I was looking for, then enjoying two hours of someone who shall remain nameless teetering around the house and across the street, thanks to two-and-a-half vodka cranberrys on an empty stomach.

Word. Wish I'd brought the camera. It was classic.

Anyway, said drunken compatriot made a few admiring circles around the new car, and declared that it looked like a weird combination of their car and their spouse's. Then we both (as I had a horrid case of the sympathy giggles) had a time picturing a Mini Cooper and a low-slung BMW humping and having my Element as their offspring, kind of like the dwarves that marry and have giant kids. Right. And I swear, I didn't have any of those cocktails, which makes it doubly scary.

Okay, it's getting late. Better put together my "Spirit Day" ensemble. Somebody in Jax better be clutching their John Lynch jersey happily to their chest as they drift to sleep tonight!