Dear Readers,
This past Thursday was one of the worst days of my life. I was tired. I was broken. My stomach was trying its absolute hardest to void all its contents so it could then, very unceremoniously, murder itself. I was sick and hungover and dying, right there, right in a desk chair that was, of course, situated in an open office, just so everyone could watch my body as it decayed. Around 1 PM I left work for a run through Jack In The Box, so I could consume an unhealthy amount of tacos I KNEW my digestive system would be unable to process, and a quick nap at home. I returned to the office later that afternoon a skeleton. My life had become an unending cycle of physical pain and psychological torment. It sucked. It was worth every second of it. Because, finally, the Blues had brought home the Stanley Cup.
This past Thursday was one of the worst days of my life. I was tired. I was broken. My stomach was trying its absolute hardest to void all its contents so it could then, very unceremoniously, murder itself. I was sick and hungover and dying, right there, right in a desk chair that was, of course, situated in an open office, just so everyone could watch my body as it decayed. Around 1 PM I left work for a run through Jack In The Box, so I could consume an unhealthy amount of tacos I KNEW my digestive system would be unable to process, and a quick nap at home. I returned to the office later that afternoon a skeleton. My life had become an unending cycle of physical pain and psychological torment. It sucked. It was worth every second of it. Because, finally, the Blues had brought home the Stanley Cup.
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