It is 5:19am. Why, you're wondering, am I up. Actually, you're probably snuggled all cozy and shit in your bed with some hot piece of ass right now while I'm trapped listening to runway music and searching for random things on Wikipedia.
The reason, to answer your question, that I am up (at now 5:21am) is because I had a dream that my walls were bleeding (blood) and it really freaked me out. Freaked me out to the point where I felt the need to touch them but was afraid to.
One would think I was on drugs. Or at least slowing sobering up. But nope. Mere hours ago, I had Chinese food with Michael 2 and was tucked in with my book and my hot water with lemon (it's my new 'thing') by 9:30.
I don't even know who won Top Chef. (Hold on. OMG. Are you fucking kidding me?)
I thought I was being all responsible and adult, ready to be rewarded for my saintly ways by waking up to birds chirping, refreshed and ready to face this wonderful world.
My boudoir has turned into a cheesy 80's horror film and it's making me paranoid.
Anyway, my plan is to pack all my shit together and go to SuburbaGym when it opens at 6:30, thus giving me time to shower and blow dry before all the old ladies start walking around naked. However, we have a slight problem.
Rhonda the Honda has no gas. I'll be happy if the old girl's engine starts. And as we all know, the nearest gas station is the dreaded GhettoGas. This ain't the kind of place you want to pull out a credit card pre-dawn. I mean, what if the bleeding walls were a sign...