i ran out of work this afternoon like my hair was on fire. i stopped only long enough to get some ice so i could have a big, fat drink. then i called FFJ in near hysterics. i cried, she made me laugh. then she asked the magic questions.

“do you have ice cream?” she asked.
“yes.”
“you have alcohol.”
“yes.”
“what do you have from netflix?”
“shitty stuff.”
“and you don’t own any Dawson’s Creek?”
“NOOOOOOO,” i wailed. “this is exactly why i need to own it.”
“sex in the city, you got that. right?”
“yes.”
“that’ll do.”
“now, whatever you do don’t blog about it.”
“ok.”
“don’t.”
“i won’t.”
“i’ll call you tonight when i get back,” she said.
“i’ll be ok,” i said. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“yes,” i said, crying. “i’ll be fine.
“don’t blog about it!”

and this is me not blogging about it.