I am the luckiest

Whoa. Finally, we've joined the 17th century.

My mumsicle sent me a Christmas care package containing cookies (which she bagged using her nifty vacuum sealer), two Christmas CDs, a spicy candle, a card, and another card from my aunt. Mmm, fuzzy. This evening, I fell asleep with the candle burning next to my bed. Now my lungs feel waxy instead of the usual sexy.

Thus begins my weekend of waiting tables for salty dollars. I'd like to write tomorrow morning. First, I want to walk around all day with that I've-already-accomplished-my-goals-comma-bitches feeling. Second, there's no fighting that I like to read or watch television and dick around when I get home from work. I'd like to not spend my writing time coughing up tired creative juices, wishing I was doing something less devoted. I'd like to shave the guilt from my nights.

So let's do some math. If I have to leave for work at 10:30, I should get up by 8. Yikes. Anyone want to come over and pat me awake? Watch the crotch, sicko.