A WEEK ... from H E Double Hockey Sticks
There are no words to properly describe the raw emotions of this week. Trust me. I've tried. Between extreme stress (which I swore I wasn't going to let get to me way back on December 31st, when I was still basking in the post-Christmas glow), extreme exhaustion, a fever I didn't know I had, and other redundant and ridiculous stuff (to everyone else) that has snow-balled into UGLY for me.
I am ready to put this week to bed.
No, actually, I am ready to bury this week ... under a ton of dirt ... after it has been sufficiently blugeoned to death.
It's the type of week that makes me both fearful and depressed that I have approximately 67.8 years left until I can retire .... and then head to McDonalds to finish out what is left of my withering golden years ... better start practicing, "Would you like fries with that?" now.
Can they really be called Golden Years when the Baby Boomers will have properly sucked out the last vestiges of my social security for themselves?
Ahead of me, to make my Friday night even that much sweeter? A rousing trip to the grocery, wherein I will be surrounded by all those Snowmageddon Followers out there that are convinced the world will come to a screeching halt if we actually get the 8 inches of snow they are predicting for Saturday evening and Sunday morning.
Newsflash! IT MELTS!
And so I put a period at the end of this week's sentence, and I hope and pray that next week, the week I am suppose to welcome 40, doesn't actually feel like I am welcoming 60.
Cheers!
I am ready to put this week to bed.
No, actually, I am ready to bury this week ... under a ton of dirt ... after it has been sufficiently blugeoned to death.
It's the type of week that makes me both fearful and depressed that I have approximately 67.8 years left until I can retire .... and then head to McDonalds to finish out what is left of my withering golden years ... better start practicing, "Would you like fries with that?" now.
Can they really be called Golden Years when the Baby Boomers will have properly sucked out the last vestiges of my social security for themselves?
Ahead of me, to make my Friday night even that much sweeter? A rousing trip to the grocery, wherein I will be surrounded by all those Snowmageddon Followers out there that are convinced the world will come to a screeching halt if we actually get the 8 inches of snow they are predicting for Saturday evening and Sunday morning.
Newsflash! IT MELTS!
And so I put a period at the end of this week's sentence, and I hope and pray that next week, the week I am suppose to welcome 40, doesn't actually feel like I am welcoming 60.
Cheers!
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