It's official. Phuza Thursdays suck. Especially since they appear to be linked to "Somebody-kill-me-please" Fridays.
Yesterday started off with the best of intentions. From this day forth I endeavour to start every subsequent day with the worst intentions, if this is the result.
Got home, played Martha Stewart for a while, got an sms from TDB which read "Bought a shit load of beer, coming round now." I stood at the front gate for almost half an hour.
No sooner had we got tucked into the beer than Tarty Farty Tequila Party informed us via many a Tequila Tweet how things were progressing at the Patron Silver Tequila launch party she was attending. A while later she pitched up with a bottle...
Good news travels fast, as another friend of ours out on the town for some form of boy's night was, along with his cohorts, also invited around. What a radical night. I eventually had to chase everyone away at some ungracious hour. This was entirely out of character, but I was blitzed, so that's my excuse.
Enter this morning. Fuck. My mouth is currently playing host to a rather ungrateful and mostly diseased colony of badgers. The only pain that's worse than that in my head is that in the rest of my body. I've had fuckall sleep. It feels like someone gave me the "Pitch Black" eyeball treatment with sandpaper. And I have this nagging feeling I may have done a Brangelina online. I may have to check my mail to see what nationality child I've adopted...
Also, to Surprise Phonecall Girl, hope all is well. Chat soon.
Spread the love. On a cracker. Then stick it up your arse. Get it?