Freddy Mercury is still dead.
Lyle Lovett is still married to somebody else. (She can't love you like I can, Lyle! Come to me! We have the same hair! We can share product!)
The dermatology resident who told me that all I needed was Cetaphil and a good mild moisturizer lied. Through her teeth. I now have almost as many zits as freckles.
We're still short two aides and several nurses. Note to Manglement: when the majority of the staff on a floor leaves within a couple of weeks, there's a problem.
Freddy Mercury. Still dead. As much as I keep hoping it'll all turn out to be a bad dream and he'll be ready to tour again tomorrow.
I took a spectacular tumble today during my workout with Attila the Cheerleader; so much so that she didn't even laugh. As I was hopping up onto that dog-damned step, sideways, the edge of my right foot caught the edge of the step and over I went like a sack of potatoes. I now have bruises all over my right side.
And I still don't write as well as Sid Schwab.
Endless.com may have five-dollar-off shipping, but they don't carry Chuck Taylors.
The Gap has stupid ads.
Jack Bauer is pretty cool with a belt and a switchblade, but I miss MacGyver's hair.
Speaking of dead, another one bit the dust this past week at work. We're having a run (actually, *we're* not having the run; *Carolita* is having the run. We suspect she's whispering "Go toward the liiiiiight" to them in Spanish) of that lately.
My cuticles are horrible.
I got bile all over my favorite scrub top. SHOUT stain remover does not remove bile.
My Google home page is all messed up.
The cat garked up a hairball into my clogs today.
Carolita apparently got hold of F. Mercury.
And I am going to bed. If I hold down the "reboot" button on my day long enough, tomorrow might be better.