Get ready

In typical dipshit-writer fashion, I don't have cowboy drag to wear to bbk mtn; I just have a nametag that says:

I'M ALWAYS WEARING COWBOY DRAG.

Tomorrow night is the fire boss' birthday observed. My personal deejay is champing at the bit, and I've got half a dozen people hoping to sleep on my floor. YES. My goal is not to bleed from my face. The fruit tart is in the fridge.

At work I am useless. The boss likes it when I hum. He needs gum surgery. I'm honestly considering adopting a dog, and who knows what will happen next? I want to write a story about going to see Measure for Measure, which was so good, and keeps the mocking of Christ returning to me mornings, lingering in bed.