My eyes are like sandpaper.
My head is a wilted balloon at the site of your town’s fireworks on the fifth of July, waiting to be deflated and thrown into the trash heap.
My stomach just is.
My limbs are as limp as a stuffed monkey with Velcro paws.
And my brain is still snoozing in bed.
With all the excitement of going to the late showing of Expendables 2 yesterday, I was looking forward to writing a post titled something happy like Date Night. . .
I was going to tell you to avoid the D-Box, but to observe its emergence onto the scene as an interesting cultural phenomenon.
I was going to tell you to opt for kettle corn instead of regular popcorn.
I was going to tell you that the magic is still alive at the theater.
But today I awoke in another dimension all together. I have a hangover from gobbling down a whole bucket of sugary popcorn, seeing Arnold again, and sleeping in a bedroom I haven’t vacuumed in one week. Who needs alcohol when you can feel like this from a whole plethora of unhealthy activities?
Man, either I’m getting old, or watching bullets fly simply put me into a restless yet too sound of sleep.
Date night? Save yourself.