Son of a bitch, folks. Seriously. Son of a bitch. I don't know why, but this lovely phrase is my main curse lately. Maybe it's because of that Family Guy epsiode. You know: "Eighteen year old Lois. Son of a bitch." This one just rolls off the tongue, really. Lately I've been employing it to express my frustration in every possible situation. I used it when I saw what I had missed by not staying at the Boardwalk. I shrieked it this afternoon when my cousin's Dora the Explorer ball went careening down the beach. A chase ensued, and when I returned I was greeted by a smiling two year old who gleefully informed me that she "didn't like Dora anymore."
But screw all that. I said it then and I am saying it now, because things are simply not going my way. I feel like a bride on the night before her wedding. Everything's supposed to go absolutely out of control, right? Please say yes. It would make me feel so much better. So my dress makes me look like a pirate. All of my makeup has mysteriously disappeared. The perfume I was planning on wearing fell from the table and smashed. My throat and ears hurt. And apparently, the understudies are running rampant at Hair. I already knew Allison Case had something wrong with her hip and wasn't gonna be there, but now apparently Gavin Creel is sick, and Will Swenson's skipping the show tonight. Son of a bitch. Pray for me, friends. If not, oh well. You get what you get.
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