Evidence of PMS? Every single damn word about that last post written just a few hours ago bugs the bajayzuz out of me. Except for the two plugs at the end. Romantic? Please. I don’t know from romance. I just want my pillow and my hot water bottle and QUIET. I’m waiting for a co-worker to bring me hot chocolate from Peet’s which might be the only thing that prevents me from chewing off the end of my headset and blaming it on wee tiny invisible mousies, thereby getting my ass taken posthaste up to John George, the local psych ward. Growl. Pillow. Chocolate. Rain. (Well, see, we’re back at romance and I’m ready to kick the mousies myself. If I could only see them.)
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