Well, I guess there's finally some closure to the whole Brad Delp from Boston death jag I've been on of late. Apparently, he locked himself in the bathroom with two charcoal grills, lit them up and died of carbon monoxide poisoning. This turn of events certainly doesn't make me feel any better about the whole thing. I mean, is it sadder that he was so deeply depressed that he killed himself, or would it have been worse if he had a faulty furnace and died accidentally in his sleep. Frankly, I think it's pretty much fucking depressing any way you look at it.
I did come to one realization, though. I've had to get up for the last couple of days with the kids because the Old Lady has strep throat, and lemme tell ya, that deal where I was going to get up with them every morning? Fuck that noise. I haven't been able to swim since Sunday, I'm tired as fuckshit and my crabbitudinousness is reaching lethal levels. I think we'll leave it as the every-other-morning-switcheroo we have in place now, thank you.
I love how when I type "fuckshit," blogger suggests "fucks hit" as an alternative. In what context would that ever make sense? Let's see... "Johnny enjoyed 12 fucks, hit the bars and was back home and in bed by 10:30 p.m." Well, I had to use a comma, but it worked.
Blogger also recommended "pulchritudinous's" for "crabbitudinousness," and "witchery" for "switcheroo." Silly Blogger.
Well, I guess I'm realizing that sure, I get exhausted and crabby and I don't always get to exercise when I want to, but you know, I've never even gotten remotely close to the point where I want to take a couple of Weber grills into the bathroom to off myself. And while I guarantee that I'll still be tired and cranky tomorrow morning as I'm making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I really wouldn't want it any other way.
Actually, that's a lie. I'd rather sleep in and then go swimming.