I just spent 45 minutes making a grocery list for the Thriller for this weekend, explaining, in detail, everything he should look for (he’s wonderful like that — very patient and thorough).
Why didn’t I just get up 45 minutes earlier and go myself? Cripes.
And why is it that I finally got a good 6 hours of sleep, and I still feel like a dustbin? Answer me my questions, um, two.