Just pretend I'm a sophomore in high school

This weekend was kind of a bust. Getting called in to work Sunday sort of threw my whole plans (1. Do nothing 2. Don't feel guilty about doing nothing) off kilter. That's not to say I won't enjoy the slightly beefier paycheck (which I'll turn around and hand off to my car insurance company, the bastards).

So Monday, I worked out and waited for Phil to get off work at 2 so we could go do something (my personal preference was to go to the Brooks and then stroll through Overton Park for a while, but Phil wasn't pheeling it). But when he got home, we discovered that we weren't getting along very well (in all relationships, some days bring more friction than others), so I decided that I'd like to go to O'Charley's for one of their fried chicken salads that I love so dearly. And then I decided to have a silly blue fruity drink. And after I finished that, I decided I'd like to have an amaretto sour. And that certainly eased the tension between us, but it also shot my day all to hell, because my body decided to feel like shit for the remainder of the day, like I'm some 12-year-old who's never had alcohol before.

So the rest of Monday was spent trying to quiet a headache and settle my stomach, which was doing its best to reject the poison I had fed it during lunch. Somehow, I felt okay enough to go see The Weatherman that night, which was a decent-enough film to see while nursing a pre-hangover (not a lot of loud action and flashy lights that might have induced vomiting). (All I want to mention about this movie is that it has a cameltoe montage. Oh, and it's beautifully shot by Phedon Papamichael. Not the cameltoe montage; the rest of the film!)

After the movie, I came home and crashed at 11 p.m., slept until 10:30, and here I am at work, with a head full of snot and crud and a still-shaky stomach. If you ever doubted how much of a loser I am (and I'm sure you didn't), print this entry out as proof.