Shut the fuck up.

(I wish I could say that to some people and not feel guilty about it. Fucking lingering Catholicism!)

Last night:
Ditched work early. Spent an hour or two with my man. Relations. Up and out ... no second shower, I kind of like having him on my skin. Racing through the rain as the sun shines bright (what a beautiful trip). Stop for smokes and beer. At Amber's. It's been more than a month since we've hung out, but we fall back into the conversation like people do when they are real friends. TJ and Shawn at the door. Time for Knox gelatin and mohawk-making. Drink, drink, drink. Smoke. Out the door, straight to the bar. More beer. I think about how shitty I'll feel in the morning but down another anyway. Mmmmm. In my khakis and chucks, thank god. I'm comfortable and warm. Film the band while tipsy. Laugh because who knows what they'll see tomorrow. OK show. Not their best, but they're my boys so I like it just the same. Off to Fred's for -- thass right -- more beer. (God, I can consume a lot of beer.) Almost 1 a.m. and it's time to go home. The man's been waiting. I call, he comes and everything I never thought I'd want (but needed really badly) is sitting next to me. I smile and exhale because now I am home.

I love my girls. I love my punk rock boys. I love the music, beer and socializing. But I love being home with my baby ten million times more than anything. I've never felt so at peace in someone's presence, as I do when he's around. He really is perfect for me. Corny, cliche and a little bit ridiculous, but it's oh-so-true. Ask Michelle.

It's really nice, all this happy. Shit, I'm so happy I hope the entire population is half as giddy as this here. Even the fucks, three and two dimensional. Even you, Kelly from the sixth grade who made me feel like shit with your hurtful comments. I hope you're happy, too. Because, believe it or not, fucktards need love too. So spread it, losers.

The only thing that could possibly make my life better? Lower gas prices.