I looked at the calendar this morning and thought, at least it's Friday. Before realizing that didn't mean a damned thing. I don't get weekends off. Weekends mean nothing special anymore.
I want to smoke, too. ALL. THE. TIME. I dream about smoking. However if I'm even near a cigarette I get repulsed. Even a clove. Even my brand of clove. But I *REALLY* want a smoke.
It's okay to want, I guess. Just not to indulge.
Mojo comes home on Sunday and will be all full of his adventures on the AIDS/Lifecycle and quite frankly I'm feeling like I don't really want to hear about it. I just want to hand him the baby, go to the bookstore and spend the rent money. When I come home, I'll expect the dishes and laundry done, a masseuse, a box of Godiva chocolates and a pitcher of fruity rum drinks.
I am a horrible person.
I'm really much nicer with sleep.
Time to go play with the baby now.