Tired. So tired.

All complaints regarding grammar and typos should be directed to Nyquil and the book Shelters of Stone, which broke one of my nails so bad, I now have to wear a bright yellow bandaid on my finger.

Urgh.

When people threated to never return to the library, should I be ashamed that I have to run to the back, lest I laugh in their faces?

Christ. This isn't Borders where we must have every one of your pennies in our pockets.

Public. Library.

You can't stop paying taxes, bitch.

Anyway, speaking of work, The Walking Sex seems to have a lady friend and he wouldn't look me in the eye the whole time he was there. Usually there is a little flirty banter, some eye nookie, you know. But not while his lady friend is there. Oh, no. Can't woo the library girl while the girlfried is two feet away.

Urgh. Urgh. Urgh.

Happy little post script: Happy fucking Birthday, Davi! It's still the thirteenth over there, right? I ain't late or nothin', am I? Happy, happy birthday. Happy yay birthday. Woo.

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