Friday: Woke up feeling assy. Went to work anyway. After dealing with an insanely perky imbecile, decided that I could no longer guarantee that no one would be killed if I remained at work. Went home and slothed about for the rest of the day and night.

Saturday: Woke up feeling assy. Decided that it would be safest for all concerned if I remained at home. Slothed about for the entire day. Tried (unsuccessfully) to organize a slumber party with the cats. Gave up, and tooled around online for the rest of the night.

Sunday: Still consumed with feelings of ass. Went to work anyway. Locked keys in the car at the gas station. Had to plead with a sheriff-type person to break into my car. Continued on to work. Decided that an extended stay in the mall of my discontent would likely result in someone being killed. Went home early and slothed about for the rest of the day and night.

The end.

Yeah, apparently? Cats suck ass at slumber parties. Their lack of opposable thumbs prevents them from grasping pillows, so we couldn't have a proper pillow fight. I batted them around the room for a while with my pillow, but it wasn't as much fun as I had hoped, and WOW were they pissed off. Then, I realized that cats don't wear bras, so mine was the only one that could be frozen. I didn't see the fun in that, so there went that classic slumber party prank. I also discovered that cats are complete shit at telling scary stories. The scariest story they could think of was the time they were fed nearly an hour late and they all thought they were going to die of starvation. Not really what I was looking for. We tried watching a couple of movies, but the cats got into a huge argument as to which was THE classic slumber party movie; Sixteen Candles, Dirty Dancing, or Say Anything. I left them battling it out upstairs and locked myself in the basement to tool around online.

Next time, I'm having a slumber party with the turtles. Stupid cats.

*****

After assorted conversations with assorted individuals over the past few days, I have finally decided what I would like to be when I grow up.

With my 31st birthday rapidly approaching, I've been doing a great deal of thinking about my life. Thinking about where I'd like to be, and what I'd like to be doing someday. Thinking about where I am now. Thinking about what I used to think I wanted to do and where I wanted to be when I grew up. That last one is especially bizarre to ponder. Over the years, I've been all over the board where desired careers and lifestyles are concerned.

Housewife and mother of at least 5 children (Frightening, but true. I had names picked out and everything. I mean, sure, I was TWELVE when I thought this would be the best life ever, but STILL. *shudder*)

Missionary (Even more frightening than the housewife plan, but equally true. Man, I used to love me some Jesus)

Art fag (With the wardrobe of all black clothing. Chain smoking, drinking coffee by the gallon, saying disparaging things about the "bourgeoisie" and gesturing flamboyantly with my arms. I hadn't really settled on one particular medium, but at the time, the whole persona was more important)

Dead head (Traveling the country, following the Grateful Dead, selling grilled cheese sandwiches to support myself, ingesting every possible recreational substance known to man. Seemed like a lovely way to spend the rest of my life. Unfortunately, Jerry died, and with him my dream. Sigh)

Meth-head raver-tard (Had a hard time figuring out how I could turn this one into an actual career, but goddamn if I didn’t nearly kill myself trying to find out how I could. Good times, good times)

Graphic designer (With the shiny portfolio case and super sharp business suits. I didn't actually know what graphic designers did. I mean, I knew it was, like, art...stuff? But the specifics were unclear. It sure SOUNDED like a cool thing to do, though)

Glass blower extraordinaire (Sort of like the art fag, only with a specific medium this time, and less black clothing. I fell in love with Dale Chihuly and his pirate's eye patch and bright yellow pants)

To name a few brief, yet oh-so-intense passions.

It's odd to think that during each of those phases, I was so firmly convinced that I'd found my calling. It's odd to think that, at 31, I'm not even remotely close to any of them. I mean, sure, those things are all still part of me. It's not like I've completely abandoned any of them. (Well. With the exception of the missionary one. Because DAMN, am I over that phase) I just know that they're not quite right, that I'm not quite there yet, in regards to figuring out what I want to do.

At least, that's how I felt prior to this weekend. Now, having had a great deal of time to mull things over, I have finally figured out what it is that I'm here on this earth to do. I have finally found THE calling, THE one thing which I want to be more than anything else in the whole wide world. Ladies and gentleman, you are reading the words of the woman who will be the world's FIRST...

GIANT NINJA PIRATE IRISH-DANCING ROBOT!

HUZZAH!

I am so excited, I can barely contain myself! I have finally found the ONE thing at which I would be PERFECT! The one thing for which I have been training and preparing my entire life!

GIANT NINJA PIRATE IRISH-DANCING ROBOT!

Man. I really AM the coolest person in the entire world.

*****

Oh, and you there, the one who cheered me up so much last night...thank you very much, sir. I needed it more than you probably know. As thanks, I'll let you make motorboat noises in them next time

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