I would like to express to you, internet, my hatred for Mondays. Typically, I am tired, hungover and generally bitchy on Monday morning, but today, I have taken things to a whole new level of Hot Mess.
I want to start by saying that drinking more than ONE large bottle of wine on Sunday afternoon is a bad idea. I'm just putting that out there. It is not a good plan. You will end up taking a shower and falling asleep with wet hair only to wake up looking like you have just stuck your finger in a light socket. I promise this is what will happen. I was like, almost Diana Ross this morning. (In the hair department, you know, not in, like, the famous singer sort of way. Although, that would be pretty rad...I digress...)
Anyway, so naturally, because I was already aware of the fact that I looked like a disaster, I decided to spend about 35 extra minutes (which could have been used to ATTEMPT to beautify myself) half-asleep with my head on The Kid's chest. Yep. Instead of actually getting out of bed to try and look like I was alive, I decided to ignore the clock and make out. (Which is an awesome way to wake up, but it tends to get in the way of the whole...doing anything else with yourself...thing.) By the time I actually hurled myself out of bed, I had fifteen minutes before I had to be out the door. So this meant that I would spend about 2 minutes in the bathroom to try and tame the hair and then deciding that it looks perfectly, then another two minutes on the makeup situation, which consisted of slapping on some mascara and foundation and lying to myself that it was covering up the fact that a) I am painfully hungover and b) I actually have a bit of a black eye from punching myself in the face last night. (I will come back to this.) I threw on a jean skirt and a black tee shirt and some flip-flops and ran out the door. When I got to work, with my no makeup, Diana Ross-looking, bruised up ass, Spliff pointed out that not only did I have toothpaste on my shirt (which she informed me looks like spooge), but I also didn't blend my foundation well enough and I had a big cakey spot on the side of my face. Hooray!
But I made it. And I have only said "fuck" about 78 or 79 times so far.
Okay, the nose thing. Yes, I actually punched myself in the nose and gave myself a bit of a shiner. I, evidently, was discontent about the number and severity of the bruises I already have (because I have some really beautiful ones right now in all shapes and shades of purple) and I decided that I needed to have one on my face. You know, just for good measure. So, The Kid was turning off the light in my bedroom and I was trying to pull my comforter up so that I could wrap myself up like a burrito, and, right in mid-tug, I lost my grip on the comforter and my hand came up and hit me in the face. Luckily, I was already hammered and, though it really freaking hurt, I forgot about it seconds later. It is also very hard for me to concentrate on anything when I am exhausted and there is a cute boy in my bed.