A Petulant Post
I start a new job tomorrow, and besides being exhausted, hungover, and on the verge of some ebola-like flu, I also have about 9387492873423 posts to write. Why do I always leave things to the last minute? I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone come up with even mildly coherent sentences.
On what should be a really exciting night (in which a normal person would probably do something relaxing like take a bath and go to bed early), I’m miserable.
If only posts could write themselves.
