Happy Hour

Made a new friend at Happy Hour last night: the bartender, Mike. Love him! Because everyone loves the man that serves me (ME!) even when I cannot produce a valid picture ID. Because my dumb ass left my wallet at home in my mad rush out the door that morning. And I look young, y'all.

So anyway, this place has some bitchin' sangria - so we had a bunch. I formulated the best plan (because the best plans are made when drunk off one's ass): I would call in the next morning, take the day off, and then get out of bed only when extremely necessary. Well, this morning, I totally pussed out and went to work. It was hard, too, considering I got this fab duvet cover and I feel like a princess in my cushy, poufy bed. So I drag myself into work (or, the seventh level of Hell - whatever you like), and there's absolutely nothing for me to do. Why? WHY?

We're allowed to leave from work at 2 p.m. today to help clear the city before the inauguration tomorrow. I planned on leaving early - like noon or so. But no. Why not? Because the Bitch that We Hate (BTWH) has screwed me once again. BTWH is supposed to get her crap turned in so I can run this stupid report and then send it out to all these higher-ups at the Institution. EVERYONE ELSE can get this done on time (sometimes early). BTWH is under the impression that her shit's more important, screw everyone else. Honestly, I don't think she really understands that people here rely on everyone else to get the job done. So here I am, waiting on her to remove her thumb from her ass so I can go HOME.