Scott Brown and Martha Coakley are neck-to-neck. In hindsight, my own troubles aren't nearly as significant.
But Jesus Christ, after fitfully sleeping and waking up every two hours, the attack of the UTI at 5 am was pretty brutal. Combine that with my 5:40 am shower after lying awake staring at the ceiling, my morning trip to Shaw's only to find that they don't carry meds for UTI's, and then my way-too-early polls trip... grrr. I want to go back to bed THIS MINUTE. I'm terrified that Scott Brown's going to win, and we'll go down the shitter in flames. Dear sweet Jesus. Please let Martha win.
And then I come into work, to an array of problems that I'm dealing with: at least book group is cancelled tonight. I'd just skip it.
But thank you, Rachel, you ugly-as-sin-cunt for DESTROYING the copy machine beyond the point of no return. What the fuck. Sitting on the pitch call listening to her slam shit into place... I just... dear sweet Jesus. This week already sucks.
I. Hate. Today.
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