Ok, so technically it is not, but since my head is currently spinning in last night’s bacchanalian-esque Dionysis-inspired wine-overload celebration, I can say whatever I please, dammit. It’s the Freakin’ Weekend, got it?
So that song is playing around in my head, over and over and OVER and I found it more than just moderately amusing last evening to quote, and so appropriately so, “I’m like so what, I’m drunk.” I decided, in the midst of gallivanting and
trying on and
laughing and losing my wine glass and fawning over my new favorite person that I would write my entry today all about that song. Now, granted, I hadn’t the slightest clue as to what direction I was going to take it, but I had a theme. And for that, I was grateful.
So, groggy-headed and amazingly enough, bathed (though I didn’t wash my hair as it was somehow looking fabulous-ish this morning), I bring my weary and post-inebriated head into my not-so-exciting job (apparently, when you’re on the countdown to leave — 6 days and counting — they don’t give you a lot to do), fully prepared to sit, ponder, and figure out the quandary that is tying the phrase “running her hands through my ‘fro” into anything fun to talk about. When, shock and disbelief, I begin my daily web-log self-semi-required reading, I notice that I have been beaten to the punch. Damned all tarnation.
That was supposed to be MY pop-culture-inspired entry. I was supposed to talk about the “toot toot”s and the “beep beep”s and the fact that I’ll pretend that R. Kelly hasn’t been hitting it with 14-year olds so I can just enjoy the catchy, happy, toot-toot-beep-beep-ness of the ditty. I was supposed to be the one to get the song stuck in YOUR head too so you can understand why I’m snapping and humming and singing and tooting and beeping here all day as I have been since last night and likely will all day long. And, in doing so, I was supposed to ask YOU for advice how to exorcise Mr. Kelly’s catchy beeping-tooting-ditty besides replacing it with “Rock Your Body” as it one-ups it by promising to “get [me] nekked by the end of this song.” (Britney be damned, that’s a promise I’d like to hold you to, Mr. Timberlake.)
But that’s not the way it happened, leaving me now with zero, zilch, nada to talk about.
I could talk about my hangover, but that’s a recurring theme that, frankly, is starting to get old and repetitive. And old and repetitive.
I could talk about my cats, but I would like to have sex again at some point in my life, and we all know what guys think about girls with cats.
I could reminisce about college days when I had crushes on
lacrosse players, but there’s a very strong rule about self-incrimination here on aubreysabala.com
I could think back on days past in order to prompt me to going somewhere fun and tropical on my 5-days-between-jobs vacation, and to discourage you all from the fact that yes, my hair really DID used to do that, and NO, it wasn’t a perm, but then I remember that I’m broke and my hair has somehow magically self-relaxed. (Thank God.)
I could make a list of my top 5 and formally announce the new addition of Matthew McConaughey as a replacement for the Propecia-needing Heath Ledger, talk about the fact that Jordan Catalano from “My So-Called Life” and Ben from “Felicity” are currently dueling it out in my old-tv-show fantasy land, or talk about the disproportionate number of hot chicks in Atlanta versus the seemingly four good-looking-and-nice guy counterparts, but that would just make me feel all single. (Not normally a bad thing, just when hangover + taxes tonite + being at work + no one to eat lunch with + nothing to do + needing a nap = my current life, I want a beau to at least complain to, if not to distract me!)
I could make a list of my favorite foods in the hopes that somebody would like to send them to me, but then I remember that those teensy-little jeans that I tried on last night from Fab’rik wouldn’t exactly button. At all.
So, in the meantime, I think I’ll just “sip on some coke and rum” because, after all, it’s the Freakin’ Weekend. And don’t you forget it.