My sometimes-popular wife ditched me this week for a conference in Atlanta. I'm positively crawling out of my skin over here. Channeling my old man (and a little Phil Collins), I've been repeating these phrases in the hope they might motivate me to stop being such a pathetic loser and get some fucking work done:
Be a man
Grow a pair
Shut up and get me a goddam beer
You're no son of mine
Nothing yet, but I'm thinking of adding gin into the mix. If that fails, I might try putting on some of her clothes. Wish me luck! I don't want to spend the next few days picking scabs.
Oh, and in the event you don't hear from me over the the next few days, can someone please swing by? If you find me crouched and wild-eyed in the corner, all that means is I've gone feral for a second. Just toss a couple of pork chops on the floor and I should be good to go until Saturday.