Waking up 45 minutes late because Sister has spent the last few nights at Double Dip's and I am accustomed to waking up to a rukkus.
OK though, I've developed a new hair style that REQUIRES that I neither brush nor dry my hair before leaving the house, and I've got the War Paint (read: face of makeup) down to a 5 minute science and I've been wearing the same outfits to work for longer than I care to admit (read: YEARS, all new clothes are Saturday wear).
So, I'm a little sore from the cat sleeping on me and my back wearing an extra 10 pounds through the night but I am getting out of the house with 10 minutes to get 7 minutes up the street and I eek a little when I bend over to grab my shoes and wonder what hell-atious dump the cat took that the multiple cat box and litter to herself can't mask even a bit of the stench and I look up to the cream microfiber chair I was going to sit in to put my shoes on and its covered in shit.
Covered. In Shit.
So I turn to find the cat and repremand her for, you know, having a regular BM, and find that she was so upset at her behavior that she puked ALL OVER the living room.
So, yeah, morning didn't start well.
I roll into work with a swirl of leaves in the wake of my path (literally, actually, not blow'n smoke at ya this time) and in the elevator turn my phone to vibrate to find a text from Front Desk saying "I'm coming in maybe an hour late, can you turn the phones on?" with one of those obnoxious signature lines with smiles and decorations all over it.
Oh, and I started a diet plan Monday to reset my metabolism and break the sugar roller coaster I spend my days on, so on top of all that, I'm hungry.
Really, really hungry.
No shakes or headaches, but my stomach is bored and tells me about it.
Minute by minute updates, especially in the morning.
So, I'm a bit sore from the gym, resetting my metabolism, aching for a lude to let me fall off the wall I'm climbing, frustrated that I woke up thinking "I am going to double the weekly goal this week, and I'm going to get at least 50% credit on every order, so that means my vacation in October won't rape my checkbook the way I thought..." and I'm now here, looking around for my manager, wondering "who the fuck signed me up for this shit??"
I guess I did.