When you ask yourself, "What's the last thing I would want to do today?"
Is the answer ever "Drive an H-List celebrity's urine to Beverly Hills?"
For three weeks, Ive been cranky about not getting to go with the crew to the Suicide Girls show tonight. There arent enough passes, I understand, I was just being a bitch because it seemed like such a closely missed opportunity.
So you can imagine my horror when my boss says, five minutes before they are walking out the door to the show, "Did you want to come with us?"
"What? I thought I couldnt go!"
"Sure you can, you just have to walk in with me."
I look down at my ratty, paint stained shorts, my flip-flops, and the Styx/Wizard shirt I'm wearing.
"I...I...I cant go."
Somehow, this apathetic, dickwad, H-list, quasi-peripheral-celebrity, twat, whose urine I just couriered to Beverly Hills, who isn't going to give a yeti's left nut about it, was invited to this show, while I sit at home watching Quantum Leap season 2.
There is totally justice in this world, I only hope it's in the form of some sort of mythical horse-headed vigilante-demon who travels on a beam of fury and strikes down my foes with a flaming serated diamond broadsword forged in the white hot fires of Hades.
....sigh....
note! I love my girlfriend very very very very very much. she is totally awesome and no amount of tattoos or piercings would make me think otherwise.
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