{.bemoaning the weekend days.}

by devourslowly

Linus Larrabee: After all, this is the 20th century, Father.

Oliver Larrabee: Twentieth century?  Why, I could pick a century out of a hat, blindfolded, and come up with a better one.

Sabrina, 1954

Bartholomew looking a bit on the sad side @ Ashley G and Drew

H rang in sick today.

In his defence, he was actually sick.

Every fiber of me cried out for injustice.  There I was working my bum bum off earning the hard buck while he got an extension for his weekend, slippers, hot tea and everything holy.  Lucky b@st*rd.

Forsaken by my ability to focus and blinded by rage (rage against the quasi-scientific-phenomena that are odds, odds that decreed my being at work and his being at home on this grey grey Monday), I went for a brisk walk around the block.

I hate Mondays. I always behave such a thankless cow.

I felt tied down, the days ahead seemed uncertain and dreadful.  Maybe a coffee will calm me down.

It didn’t.

I wasted $3.50 for nothing.  GREAT

@#$%(#*@&

I will be nicer tomorrow


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