Ah, yes. The mood is right. The lights are burning irresistibly bright (insomnia is hot!); quasi-clean garments lounge in my bedside chair like a toothsome angel–an angel pretending to be sweaty clothes (sweaty hotness!); and on the tube, a cocktail of TV commercials does a seductive tengo: nothing says “Bow chicka wow wow” like a voice-over about laxatives. Can you say “Hot!” My night is shaping up to look like 50 shades…50 shades of bow chicka wow. Baby.

All jokes aside, I actually am having a pretty good night. It’s Thursday, and tomorrow’s Friday. Friday’s are always good days (at least from a conceptual standpoint they are. I mean, who doesn’t like the weekend? Who doesn’t like lawn gnomes? Those two questions totally corroborate why Fridays are inherently good.)

I’ve watched a few winsomely corny sitcoms, eaten some ice-cream, and done my afro up in an enormous poof. I’m in a zen place. I’m in a happy place.

All I need now is: 1.) the babe-acious Mr. Ree (ha ha) to realize that he’s a fool for not being the Bee Gee’s bananas for me; 2.) for 1 million dollars to fall from the sky right now, like seriously; and 3.) for star dust to coat everything I touch so I can make oodles of wishes, even on toilets.

Ha ha, goodnight.


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