this icon has never felt so appropriate
Hate hate hate hate hate HATEY MCHATERSON.
No sleep. Got, like, maybe two hours if that. Why? Oh, I'll be GLAD to tell you, young Skywalker, so that you too can FEEL MY PAIN.
Our thermostat is psuedo-busted, so that we think the air conditioning is on, but we can't be sure, and we have no real way of telling what temperature it's set on, BUT! By EMPIRICAL TESTING, I have DISCOVERED ITS SECRET: Our house's thermostat is set to 128378273492837.8374 degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature at which Kats burn, aka: The temperature of Satan's buttcrack on an hot August day. NO SLEEP FOR MEEEE.
Of course, it didn't help that I am apparently sick - not sick enough to merit feeling all that shitty, thank God (I think) just sick enough to sound like a bullfrog. Wiiiiiiiiiith a cold. That's been smoking a pack a day for twenty years.
AND ALSO! (Because, oh yes, there is more.) Y'all know what a horror afficiando I totally amNOT? Well, I made the massive mistake of readin' up on Stephen King's IT last night. Yeeeeep. I spent all night feverishly tossing and turning, alternately cursing my affliction and wondering fearfully when Pennywise would be appearing around the corner to EAT ME. God. Only, if he'd appeared as my worst fear, he would merely have taken the shape of a GIANT HUMAN ASS. With a lit cigarette danging from its butthole. Because that is what I am going to feel like today.
So, yes, I finally get to meet my favorite fucking rock band and HOW is this going to go?
Me: "Heya guys, you ro---*HACK WHEEZE SONIC COUGH OF DEATH*"
Green Day: *stares as shriveled, goo-covered lung horks up out of Kat's throat and flops onto floor*
Me: "Er. Yes. That's... mine. I'll just... go over here now. And die."
Eat me now, Pennywise.
No sleep. Got, like, maybe two hours if that. Why? Oh, I'll be GLAD to tell you, young Skywalker, so that you too can FEEL MY PAIN.
Our thermostat is psuedo-busted, so that we think the air conditioning is on, but we can't be sure, and we have no real way of telling what temperature it's set on, BUT! By EMPIRICAL TESTING, I have DISCOVERED ITS SECRET: Our house's thermostat is set to 128378273492837.8374 degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature at which Kats burn, aka: The temperature of Satan's buttcrack on an hot August day. NO SLEEP FOR MEEEE.
Of course, it didn't help that I am apparently sick - not sick enough to merit feeling all that shitty, thank God (I think) just sick enough to sound like a bullfrog. Wiiiiiiiiiith a cold. That's been smoking a pack a day for twenty years.
AND ALSO! (Because, oh yes, there is more.) Y'all know what a horror afficiando I totally am
So, yes, I finally get to meet my favorite fucking rock band and HOW is this going to go?
Me: "Heya guys, you ro---*HACK WHEEZE SONIC COUGH OF DEATH*"
Green Day: *stares as shriveled, goo-covered lung horks up out of Kat's throat and flops onto floor*
Me: "Er. Yes. That's... mine. I'll just... go over here now. And die."
Eat me now, Pennywise.