Last night, i.e. the same Saturday night when millions nationwide met socially for all sorts of week-ending debauchery, I got off work, took the train home, warmed up one of those skillet-meals-in-a-bag, and then watched HGTV while eating an unacceptable amount of makeshift microwaved s'mores. The night before that I got off work, took the train home, and watched an MSNBC special on San Quentin prison. I had Eggo waffles with a whiskey diet for dessert.
Conclusion: I need to (a) have the sort of drought-ending sex that requires stretching and a signed waiver, or (b) be taken out behind the shed like Old Yeller because there's simply no hope left.
At this point I think either option is completely justified.
Here's to living the high life -