Not good. Not good at all.
I sort of hate Maurice who is still in bed, snuggled UNDER the covers.
I hate that Mr. Moon's about to mow which will be noisy as hell.
I hate that Oliver Sachs died.
I hate that Donald Trump is even a thing.
I hate the cereal I bought in a fit of trying-to-eat-all-healthy-and-shit. Fucking twigs. Do I look like a chimpanzee?
Don't answer that.
I hate that I have to call my NP this week to get my biodenticals renewed. I REALLY hate that.
But damn you, Sunday. You have to look like this today.
The first hurricane lily.
Why you have to be so pretty and not too hot? Why you have to give me merry chirping crickets and silly quacking duck? Why you have to make me want to go outside and weed?
Fuck you, Sunday. I will not love you no matter what you do or how you look or smell or sound. I will not. No.