This afternoon I took a guy to a doctor's appointment and while sitting there in the waiting room for two hours, I slipped into a high fructose corn syrup coma.
I can't help it. I gave into the brown sugar frosted pop tarts on the back counter at the office. I literally thought it was the end.
Who the hell brings a box of generic pop tarts for a snack?
Me. I would. That is exactly what I do with the shit-food that somehow finds it's way into my hands and I want to get rid of. I just put it on the back counter and it vanishes. The social workers devour it.
After my HFCS coma, I stopped by an elderly Burmese lady's house to show her where her grand daughter would catch the school bus in the morning. We don't understand one another very well, so I drew a picture:
Then I called the interpreter. Seriously, sometimes I don't even know what I am doing.
So then I went to the office and found it completely desolate.
A. Dream. Come. True.
One of my ten office mates was packing up when I sat down.
My face looked something like this:
The second she got out the door I cranked up the music and had an amazing last hour of work. I danced in my chair and sang out loud. I think I listened to the following song on youtube about 19 times, of which I have my cousin Linda to thank.