It’s 6:22 p.m. on a Thursday and my night to pick up dinner for my sickly mother. But lo, I’m 60 hours in already and probably have another three more to go AT LEAST. And don’t get me started about how painful Fridays are.
It’s my last week at the Alligator Ranch. I thought I might get to lunch with my friends (hah. Why try now after three years) or maybe get to have a beer with them (hah. Why try now after two years).
It’s like the universe wants to be sure I hate everything until the last possible moment until it goes away and so do I.
Film at 11 if there were anybody else left in the building I could choke. No danger of that, ever!