fuck this day. and by "fuck," i do mean, "FFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKK! [this day]."

i should have assumed something was askew as soon as i awoke unprompted-like at quarter 'til six in the morning. being scheduled for an 8am shift and not falling back asleep until such a time, i should have DEFINITELY been keen to the trixie hobbitses this day would unfold. but like a lamb to slaughter with a flaming moth upon its back, i went along in stylish oblivious-manner:

i ate peanut butter on toast.
i watched news-ings upon the tele.
i drank reheated coffee.
i walked to work [[early, early, early!]] listening to the decemberists with a chilled bounce to my step.

as the 8th-hour approached on my sole-pastrychef-shift-of-the-week, the typical i-shouldn't-be-here feeling set in. i pressed on, in hopes that the kombucha and an orange steez would rectify the ill-mood. i began decorating the special order cakes. each one [of a total of four] had its pitfalls, but the last, well... 'took the cake,' so to speak.

9" four-layer, round, vegan carob cake with [[ever-so troublesome]] vegan raspberry "butter"cream frosting and "happy birthday [so-and-so]" written [["in blue, if it's possible!"]] upon it. [[it's not possible. we don't use any sort of food colouring.]]

i made do the best i could--layers slanting, frosting separating--and managed to base-decorate my final project of the [now]10.5 hour day. i even went to the trouble of making a strained-blueberry preserves reduction to attempt a slight-blue [but everyone knows it's really purplish] effect with the writing-medium. i finished the trim and due to desperate-need-for-punching-out-ness, forewent a much needed flash-freeze in order to stabilise the abhorrent vegan "buttercream". i folded a cakebox. i lifted the cake off the cakestand. i was carefully inserting the cake into said-cakebox when a passer-by said, "that's such a pretty red writing." shocked and awed [given that 'twas a shrill voice of a none-too-pleasing co-worker sonicboom-style in my cute, li'l ears], cake slips out of my hands.

...and........ curtain!

or is it?

i get home to a note from my flatmate, "hey! stop by figlio. i'll give you the money for the kegs and you can pick them up, hopefully you'll have someone to help you." ugh. this is HER annual fuck-the-artfair [which is the crappiest craftshow ever, given its rather hip-locale] party. this is in OUR house tomorrow [[gotta love MN... liquor stores closed on sundays making any sunday night festivity require �berplanning and thoughtful coordinating skills]]. OUR house is a mess HER mess. HER mess is one I will have to clean... after 7.5 hours in a dreadfully hot kitchen [though at least, it's a morning cooking shift] in 5 hours before the party starts.

that's ONE.

i drove the 10blocks to figlio. i spend half an hour searching for parking before just parking illegally since i only had to run in to fetch the keg money. i did this without any problems. i drove across the goddamn city to the liquor store from which the kegs were ordered. i paid the deposit. then the total for the kegs came up and it was 60 dollars more than she had anticipated. [[which i KNEW it would be.]] [[[seriously!!! I bloodyFUCKING KNEW IT!]]]. i put back the bottles of booze she had also requested i pick up. STILL didn't have enough money. i used my chequecard to make up the 30dollar difference. and now i'm fairly certain i've just overdrafted my account given that i don't have any money and don't need any since i'm on expenses-paid holiday to lake cabin starting monday, ending friday and getting paid + quarterly profit-sharing cheque on thursday before returning home.

that's TWO.

and kegs are much heavier than i thought. and one of the servers at the bar downstairs was so kind as to help me carry the motherfuckers into the keg-cooler of the pub. [[which we, apparently, get to use as storage for saturday-kegs for sunday-parties]]. back to mine: KEGS ARE HEAVY!

that's THREE.

i'm out of ginger ale. i'm drinking organic raspberry-lemonade [which has been on supersale at work] with cheap bourbon [that the object of my wishywashy affections bought for me last week]. and the horrid taste is nothing compared to the surprise fear of running out of whiskey. ...which will happen come one-more-pour.

that's FOUR.

ironically, since i've never been fond of even numbers, or squared numbers, and given that FOUR has both these pesky characteristics...

that's FIVE.

one more whiskey.
two more beers.
three more cigarettes.
a shower, some tele, some slumber.
7.5 hours of glorified-prepcooking, a nap, a change of clothes, a party.
booze-induced sleep, a hangover, a three-hour drive, a photograph of the best-named rest area ever: Middle Spunk Rest Stop, a holiday.

though, tragically, i'm missing out on a free ticket to She&Him whilst away.

DAMNIT! i just auto-halfemptied my halffull.

DAY JUST END ALREADY!!!!

[[fuck this day.]]]