Sunday is just Monday with a head start

I've had several inquiries as to my non-smoking status. Let it be known that I have been tempted often but have not succumbed to the demon leaf craving. But I'm still just a bit tender, emotionally, and I may not have been in the best mood today.

Perhaps a photo essay would be illuminating, or at very least, could pad this post so I don't have to do any meaningful writing.

I was a bit annoyed when I first woke up:


Even a fart joke would not break the grimace.

To be honest, there was a nice spot today when Jim showed me where the foxglove had bloomed:


How do they get their paws in there?

Then, on top of barely suppressed nicotine pangs, I started to get a migraine. This did not a thing to bust out my cheerful nature:


Bring the pain. Wait -- no, don't!

Then I ended up at the grocery store for a lot, lot, lot longer than I wanted to be there:


Please shoot me immediately.


Now, lest you think that I'm just one big ball of whining, head-throbbing withdrawal bitching, let me assure you that I am still the Sunniest Girl on the Block:


Here's your fuckin' daisies.

Then I went to the laundromat, which is always more fun than I can possibly relate here. I love it when a man with one, maybe two teeth makes it his business to oversee the folding of my intimate garments. Yeah, pal - when you can figure out how to keep your teeth in your mouth, then we can talk about my bras. Stand any closer and I'll taser the grease off your nutsack.

As I brought my washables into the 'mat, I was greeted by a sign:


Those damn seniors get all the breaks.

So, what the fuck is a "limint"? Is it lime + mint? Sounded pretty nasty, so I didn't waste my $2.00.

Then when I went to get detergent, I was stopped in my tracks by this:


Just my luck, it was baroque.

The most unsettling thing that happened to me in there today was the skeletal old man in the cowboy hat and wasted muscle t-shirt who wandered by and asked if "this" belonged to me. "This" might have been a horrible orange ankle sock, or "this" might have been one of those chicken-cutlet bra inserts. Either way, I denied ownership, as his haunting, sunken eyes searched my face for a sign of truth, hedging, or downright fibbery. I played it cool, Daddy-O, and Slim Chipley went on about his business elsewhere.

All in all, though, I'm still bitchy and annoyed:


This is the face Jim's had to look at alllllll day.

Photoshop has been an important part of my recovery today, but it is by no means the only part. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm goin' up to the corner store so I can tell some complete strangers to kiss my ass. It's my turn to be the neighborhood weirdo who hangs around the 7-Eleven and makes people nervous about usin' the ATM.