Well, it's been a rough couple of days. I've been trying to get my townhouse on the market (3 floors, lofted bedroom, 1500 square feet--it's very sexy, you know you want it) and everything is just happening slower than I would like (mostly because I'm a big fat procrastinator and I would like everything to be done a month ago).
The latest thing is that I called a repairman in to look at my stove. Apparently the stove has something called an F1 error (insert your own F1 joke here) and it requires a ludicrously expensive part to become a real oven again. Well, bollocks to that. The estimate to repair the stove was $450, so I just hied myself down to Sears and bought a brand new flat-top range (for less, thank you very much--and they're taking the old F1'd cooker away with them). On Thursday I get an actual working oven that I can use for two whole weeks until I move. I bet it boils water just dandy.
To celebrate that (and the repeated pillaging of my personal financial information by random New York landlords--if my identity is stolen, I'm coming after you, suckas) I have just reached the bottom of a bottle of Baileys. This means that I have finished an entire bottle of alcohol on my own in about two and a half years, and for me, this represents a personal best (not counting beers). I'll try to improve upon that record in the coming days and weeks (I have a bottle of Herradura and a bottle of raspberry vodka, and I don't want to pack 'em).
Now I'm hurling increasingly bitter commentary at last week's episode of "Ugly Betty." (Come on, Betty, you knew Henry's girlfriend wouldn't be a bitch. FIRST rule of being the also-ran is that you ALWAYS like the girlfriend. It sucks. Oooooh. Alexis has a hamburger. You know what'd be GREAT? In-n-Out burger. Oh, damn, I'm too drunk to drive to In-n-Out burger.) Okay, so it's stream-of-consciousness bitter ranting. And THIS is why I don't drink.
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