St. Patrick, I hate you and all your drunken minions.

Hey Everyone! Let’s go out and get drunk! Let’s wear green and yell stupid shit and pretend we’re Irish! Let’s fight with each other! Happy St. Patrick’s bllllaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.

I hate St. Patrick’s day.

This is the lamest holiday ever (after Valentine’s day, I humbly opine). I’ve never been a big fan of holidays that revolve around these huge “dude, I’m going to get wasted!” events, especially if there isn’t a costume involved. It also bothers me that everyone suddenly wants to be Irish so badly. Listen buddy, if you name is Hans Gerolsteiner, you aren’t Irish. And that isn’t going to change, no matter how many times you drunkenly grope that girl by the bar who just dumped an Appletini down her front or how many times you vomit into your green plastic bowler hat.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love seeing old men wearing kelly green blazers and watching frat boys stumble down the street dressed as leprechauns, but I think they should do that anyway. Why must you feel constrained by society to fetch out your favorite costume but once a year? Share your green top hats with the world!

Anyway, I’m English and Scottish, and 900 years of derision isn’t going to go away in one night by the grace of a few pints of rotten, putrid swill. However, if you are going to go out tonight, then eat some potatoes, drink some green beer, and punch someone in the face for me!

Because, even if I wanted to go out, I can’t. Why, you ask? Well, because, I have to clean the cesspool I call my room.

Pete is coming in on Monday (Aside: Holy freaking shit! Pete’s coming! For an entire week! I actually get to do normal relationship stuff like go to a movie and invite him to trivia! I’m not going to be having a relationship with my telephone!), and I can’t let him actually see the squalor in which I live. I’ve actually been “cleaning” for the past few days, but you see, my roommate is evil and vicious and has brought seasons 5 and 6 of CSI into our apartment. I am powerless to resist, y’all. Did you know that Nick got buried alive!? I’m not going to tell you what happened, but somehow the result transformed into this (Holy God! Obviously Nick Stokes doesn’t know about my feelings on facial hair. Someone should tell him. I think we might have to break up, despite his adorable accent and his outstanding jawline)

Last night I watched almost 4 solid hours (with stoppage in order to eat two bowls of Grape Nuts Crunch) of CSI that resulted in my weeping on two separate occasions (Though I really think one of those was egged on by The Moustache). I just can’t get anything done while I’m staring at my TV clutching a pillow, despite my good intentions to clean while I watch. Ha! I laugh in the direction of my good intentions!

So, for the next 24-ish hours I’m going to be cleaning like a madwoman. I have to be finished by Monday morning because I’m going to the spa! Wahoo! My mom gave me a gift certificate ages ago that I’m finally going to use. So this way, instead of being able to clean absolutelyupuntilthelastfuckingminute, as per usual, I’ll have to be done by 9:30 when I leave for the spa. I foresee three hours of me laying on a massage table and being exfoliated while I am frantically running around in my head trying to figure out how I can throw 2 weeks worth of cleaning until the hour that I’ll have between the end of my spa appointment and Pete’s flight arriving. Fun!

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