Apparently I was attacked last night -- something calling itself the "Frantic Bundle Of Fun" lodged inside my head and refused to let go. The aftermath has left me vaguely bleary-eyed and slow on my last day of work.
The attack occurred at some point yesterday afternoon -- I started feeling the willies and the wig-outs, a few loopy-loos, and a slight onset of the crazies. Ask The Shiv. Then I get home, decide that because I live in a blast furnace, flannel sheets are no longer appropriate, and go haring off into the night in search of nice light sheets and possibly some socks as EVERY SINGLE SOCK I OWN has holes in it.
My search was successful (bless you, Century 21), I ran around like a madman in the torrential downpour that opened up as I left the store, plus I bought a delicious red satiny t-shirty button-uppy kind of thing, which I promptly wore to meet the aforementioned Shiv and Company. Much laughing and wackiness ensues, including me making sexyfaces at Wang and being pouted at.
A short while later I am at my neighborhood watering hole, and -- well, somehow I ended up trading clothes at the bar with one of those I-go-to-the-gym-FIVE-TIMES-a-week guys. I traded clothes. Stripped down, may I repeat, AT THE BAR.
I have discovered that I really dislike when someone else looks better in my brand new shirt than I do. 'Course, he looked awfully nice while not in my shirt, too. Trading back seemed kind of anticlimactic, but it had to be done, no matter HOW he looked in my clothes.