My parents resorted to guilt ("I finished the shed last week...all by myself.") and bribery ("Steaks on the grill or lasagna?") and finally managed to woo us out for the weekend. It should be a nice getaway, but I find that waking up at three fifteen to take a mental inventory of our overnight bag goes a long way towards undercutting any restorative good. By five I'll have posted and had some tea. By six I'll have consulted Local on the Eights on the Weather Channel and be bounding into the bedroom to wake up my grumpy carmate. At six thirty we'll be on our way and I'll be giddy and playing the first of the Gomez cd's. We'll get there at ten and I'll be all like "see how early we left, bitches? don't you love us? I'm so your best child.". And by lunch I'll be passed out on the sectional with my hand in a bowl of Hershey's kisses and my parents will be cursing me and my misplaced energy.
All because I couldn't decide on whether to bring the dragon tee shirt or the dragon button down.
On the plus side, we'll be missing our street's annual Block Party. Oh, the things I could say.
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