By the time I went to bed last night, I was in a supremely foul mood.
This happens occasionally, especially when I feel as though I've beaten my head on the hardness of someone else's wooden nugget repeatedly until I'm nearing unconsciousness just to discover we've made absolutely no progress toward letting go and moving forward. My bad.
Needless to say, the level of crap-tacular irri-bitchy achieved was something of a sight, let me tell you. I talk to myself just generally but usually quietly, you know, to myself and under my breath. Last night, the rant-y ramble reached incredible heights in both scope and volume so that even Vinny - The Guerrilla Terrorist Cat - was following me around, mocking me and laughing at my crazy.
Awakening at 3 a.m. with a lovely IBS attack then, I'm sure, stemming in part from the OMFG you've got to be kidding me conversation I'd had earlier, and my morning wasn't starting off any better than my night ended.
But! There was hope.
Logging into Facebook - because apparently I'm a glutton for irritating punishment - I saw this: "You're not fat, you're easy to see."
This, posted by my adorable nephew who happens to be a 6'6" drag queen named Sephora Starr (is that sentence not doused liberally with awesome sauce?).
And the day got brighter.
Laughter really is the best medicine. Hence, now I'm dressed up in my going out clothes instead of my pajama pants - I don't think my companions would think too highly of the pajama pants - and am headed up to see Doug Stanhope at the Oriental Theater for even more laughing and some cocktails...something I couldn't have at 5 a.m. (or, at least, not without having to admit I've got a serious problem).
This weekend is about to be full of win.