Lots and lots of storms rolled through last night, tornado warning sirens blaring over and over again. I grabbed the important things - my beer, our cell phones, **** - and went to the front porch to watch. That's how I roll. I never saw any rotation, but the area around Churchill Downs was apparently hit. That's right close to work. Fingers crossed there's no damage.
I'm skipping out on a family camping trip this weekend to sit on my ass at home, blog, play Sims, read, do laundry, plant those lilies I've never gotten into the ground. I'm tired; it feels like we haven't had a weekend to ourselves in weeks; I don't want to mess with all the work that's involved with camping; I'm tired - these are the excuses I fed my mother, hoping she understands. I think she does. I've promised to think about maybe riding down on Saturday to spend the day with them; right now, at this very moment, that sounds like a no-go. I'm so tired.
I don't think the work-folk read the blog. If they did, no one said anything, and that would be unusual in our little work family. Safe for now! I should maybe think about that some more and figure something out.
I'm hungry. What's for breakfast? First instinct is pancakes and bacon - I could get that at McDonald's, but everything there is so bad for you. I'll probably just have oatmeal (1/2 sugar oatmeal, at that) once I get to work. When did I become so fucking responsible?
I really need to work on my language. I don't want to forever be the chick with the dirty mouth. My love for the word fuck, though, is strong and our history goes back 20 years. Sixth grade was pretty fucking miserable - that's the year that punkass 13 year old boy (who was in my 6th grade class with we 11 year olds, go figure) brought the gun to school and showed it to me in his locker. I told on him. I almost didn't, because some of the other kids really liked him and thought he was cool and there was a rumor that he had already had sex with like 5 girls, maybe even one or two in our grade, and I kinda wanted to know more about what was up with that - I was very curious about the actual goings-on involved in sexual intercourse; the book Mom & Dad had given me in lieu of "the talk" had left me fascinated and intrigued - and perhaps I thought for a minute if I befriended him rather than tattle, maybe he'd tell me exactly how it all worked and which girls had put out. No way I was going to do anything with him - I was 11! - but I wanted to know the dirt. In the end, though, my need to do the right thing won out and I went to the principal's office and ratted ol' boy out. He got sent away, of course. And everyone knew I told, of course. And, of course, any tenuous grasp I had on friendships with the cool kids at the beginning of the school year was lost. But I still felt cool when peppered my language with f-bombs. And oh what a versatile word! I even almost slipped once at home, when Brother was into my stuff and I just couldn't take it anymore. Momma heard me, but she didn't beat me or anything, as one would've expected.
Oops....I got carried away - I'm gonna be late for work. So much for responsible.
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Please don't make me cry.