NyQuil, Bar fights, and Fabric walking.

If there were ever someone who mastered un-productivity, it would be yours truly. Last night, neigh, this morning as the clock struck four, I finally fell to the powers of NyQuil. Said powers chained my body to the bed until two-fifteen in the afternoon. Not an ounce of shame runs through me. Merely for the fact that I have the most spectacular dreams when induced with NyQuil. Jumping off of five story yachts, getting into bar fights (and dominating), and dancing in street festivals in Brazil. I am quite the fan of my subconscious. Might I add, that these dreams were also included in another sleeping episode that took place at five in the evening and lasted until eight, when I woke up once more. Besides a day spent drugged and snoozing, I managed to bake David chocolate cake, and do one load of laundry. Please, someone make me a trophy of laziness. 


Ah, but wait, I did discover this evening, in my lone attempt to leave the house and socialize, that my car's battery has committed suicide. It can, on occasion and prayer, be resurrected for minuscule amounts of time. Therefore tomorrow I dip into my Cedar Point fund, and splurge on a shiny new, un-corroded black box source of life for my automobile. 


Previously stated automobile will be fully stocked with a plethora of bags filled to the plastic ties with clothes. Clothes which I successfully purged from the many corners of my room. I am not sure how, but God used my purging time to really smack me over the head, with a rod of humbleness. I am so ridiculously blessed. To have so many unnecessary things. Shelves of books, walls of artwork, tables of vases and nicknacks. Most importantly a floor (I would say closet, but anyone who knows me would catch my lie) of clothes. Although I do not posses nearly as much grace as Jesus as He walked on water, as I stumble and trip on an array of fabrics, I would like to claim it as a talent to have managed to stay alive for twenty-three years under such conditions. Minus one year when I was fifteen and I was forced to keep my bedroom clean as we were trying to sell our house. Probably one of the hardest things I have ever accomplished in my life. 


Thus concludes my writing for the evening. 
Sincerely, ME

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