It was really pretty rough. I’ll tell you about it. I woke up at 6:30 am to the sound of Penny gagging in that distinctive way that indicates whatever comes out of her mouth will be coated in a slimy layer of her stomach bile.

So, I got up to give her a dirty look, and one thing led to another and I realized that I was up for the day. So, I decided to make the best of it and live like I perceive people who get up at that hour on a Saturday do. I ate brown rice for breakfast and drank water instead of coffee, then I put on leggings and harnessed up the dogs for a lovely morning walk.

Not five minutes into the walk I was face down on the sidewalk with both of the dogs looking at me with as much concern as mammals without eyebrows can muster. I stood up and thought about crying because my hand was bleeding, my knee really hurt, and why didn’t anyone tell me the sidewalk would shift so dramatically right there?

I didn’t cry, and told myself that this day would not get the best of me. I would soldier on like a good little early riser. Then Penny took a giant shit in someones yard and I didn’t bring any bags, so after we got home I had to get in my car and drive back down there and pick it up and then get in my car with it, then I barfed in my mouth so I had to hang her bag of shit out the window while I drove home and everyone knew what was in the bag so I looked like a real douche.

Back to bed would have been a good choice now, but because I had already accomplished the rise, I was going to fucking shine. That’s probably one of my biggest personality flaws, not knowing when to cut my losses, when to fold’em, etc.

The next portion of my day would involve yard work, awesome! Not because I love yardwork and the feeling of accomplishment you might get from it. Yardwork because that’s what you do on Saturday when you’re a contributing member of society, right? You don’t have the pothead lawn on the block.

We don’t actually own a lawnmower, just a weedeater and one of those push reel mowers that people used in, like the 70’s, I don’t know when the gas-powered mower came along and I also don’t care to find out right now. So, anyway, the weedeater is usually my weapon of choice because I’m a fan of modern amenities, even thought it’s totally absurd to cut your entire lawn with a weedeater. I know it’s absurd because of the looks I get from neighbors. I’m not sure if their looks mean, ‘aw, she can’t afford a lawnmower’ or ‘aw, she’s so stupid, why doesn’t she buy a lawnmower?’ That’s beside the point.

At some point, I weedeated the shit out of my ankle. I couldn’t even react fast enough, it thwack, thwack, thwacked me like 10 times. Luckily, I was still wearing those ‘I’m active’ leggings, so no blood was drawn, just some welts that after about 30 minutes resembled what I think it might look like if an egg with the measles suddenly sprouted from the front of my leg.

But you know what? I didn’t quit. Even when I ran out of weedeater line about 3 minutes later, I went and got that hand-powered mower and thrashed around the yard with it until the job was done. I might mention that at this point, my boyfriend was still in bed, sleeping like a little sinner.

So, end game on all of that. We spent the second half of the day at Swamp Thing (Fest?) where I paid way too much for beer and the lines were too long for the corndogs so I ate red beans and rice, but I got to pet a kangaroo, so fair deal. Then I came home and passed out on the couch while we watched 3:10 to Yuma and I woke up at 4 am with the worst headache. I could have really accomplished a lot if I had stayed awake, but I’m no idiot, so I crawled into bed and slept till noon, like somebodies Jesus intended.

The End.