Today I had a lot of shit to do.

Today was my shit day, the day I set out every couple of weeks, where I wake up and make breakfast and get up early and do shit. So, I went to work, grabbed my tips and headed to the post office to begin the shit day.

I had to mail some coffee to Averie, because she is going to be famous, but having been to the post office a total of about 2 1/2 times in my life, all of which before the age of reason, i had no fuckity clue what I was doing. I stood in line with Birdman and all these pounds of coffee, all clueless and sober, and then I started looking around (my dog just farted on my lap) and everyone else had packages that were seriously wrapped in serious tape and serious boxes. I'm usually not like anyone else, I like to be moderately different, enough to not get my ass bitch slapped down the subway stairs ,but enough to where I could be asked by a sales associate at Kaufmann's if I needed any help. So, you could imagine my non chalant attitude towards what everyone else was doing at the time, I mean, when in the history of the world has the common populus been right about something? I get up to the counter and say "Hello, i need to mail these pounds of coffee", and the woman, visibly frazzled from the busy morning she must have had said "I need a new job (pausing) you need to go over THERE, and package your item BEFORE you come to me" or something to that devastating effect, and it was then that I realized the massive fucking sign from the postmaster (who i could just see, sitting there with a quill and two large black poodles standing stoicly on either side of his red velvet chair in a room filled with fancy packages with giant yellow bows on them, writing this such masterpiece of a customer service request) that politely asked us to have our mail "marked and packaged appropriately" before we got into the line. So, fuck my baby sister, I was wrong afterall. I eventually figured out the whole mess, and headed to the Apple store to get my laptop fixed.

I don't know if you're legally allowed to say "Minga" unless you're over 40 or in the Mafia, but this was the word of choice for Gary the computer tech. at the apple store in the galleria after having first seen the condition of my keyboard, that is clotted with food and weed, and my power adaptor that's been fecally attacked by two small dogs, and stomped on by many a stoner since it's inception into our household. All I could think to myself was, If there's was ever a hell existing such as a Starbucks repair shop, where if drinks weren't prepared properly, or not to the customers satisfaction (there really is a difference, people put on their "motherfucking retard hat" when they leave the house and they have a spare one in their SUV's if they happen to forget it while giving their children their daily pound of candy before they leave the house to come to our store) they could take it back to us to fix, I might not be suprised to see, say, damaged drinks, so why on earth would gary the computer tech at apple treat me like I was supposed to be bringing in some fresh baked brownies and a greeting card and a LISA in perfect condition for him to jerk off to? So, two hours later, my power adaptor and new keyboard and tech job is covered under my insurance.

I go home to find my new puppy has pissed and shit all over the house. My boyfriend calls just minutes later to inform me i will be reporting to work at 7am instead of 2pm, and my washer is broken so I'll be going there stinky and tired with a smile.

This is my shit day, and It hasn't ended in 19 years, and I don't expect it to slow down any time soon...