Come Here So I Can Fork You…

I have decided to cram an entire evening’s worth of drinking in to the next 5 minutes…even if it means waking up in a cell, in an orange jumpsuit, with Chaos & Mayhem tattooed across my ass. Which are the nicknames my non-sexual life partner & I go by. Though it’s not nearly as funny if I have to explain it, & the underlying implication, of course, IS sexual. But, as usual, I digress. This sudden urge to drink myself under the table stems from the sheer exhaustion & weight of responsibilities bearing down on me…the table would be a much easier load. Plus, there’s the added benefit of getting some much needed rest once I drink myself in to oblivion & my ass slides it’s way out of it’s chair & crumples to the floor. Good times. Of course, I could just skip the trip to Margaritaville, & achieve the same result with a cast iron frying pan to the head…but then I wouldn’t have that spankin’ new tattoo across my ass. Twice in the last week, the neighbour dude, 10 years my junior, in an epic fail at neighbourly chit chat, pointed out how utterly exhausted I looked. After first having asked if I was sick. Next time he comes to the door to borrow a cup of sugar, I plan to stab him with a fork. That’ll learn ‘im. Telling a 40 year old woman how tired she looks is akin to telling her how old she looks…& it definitely warrants a forking. Yeah, I get it, my eyeballs are bleeding…that’s what happens when you forego your 8 hours of sleep to stare at a laptop screen. But I have to fit it in somewhere, & frankly, with 4 kidlets, that tends to be the only “free” time I have. And since the odds of that changing anytime in the next decade are only slightly better than my ever finding a cure for the Griswold curse, I come full circle, back to my brilliant plan of cramming an entire evening’s worth of drinking in to the next 5 minutes. Incidentally, since I know the curiosity is eating through to your very soul, I would be Chaos…though really, you should’ve been able to figure that one out on your own. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a table with a bottle of Tequila on it calling my name. Who knew tables could talk? I bet it cheats at Euchre too…

Signed,

The Mayor!

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Tagged as: Chaos & Mayhem, drink myself under the table, Griswold, I don't get mad I get stabby, if you'd been thru what we have you'd understand, Margaritaville, non-sexual life partner, tattoo, tequila