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Monday and Tuesday are humping. Seriously. There’s no other explanation for my day.

Typically Tuesday greets me with a smile, but not today. Today Tuesday greeted me with a headache, and a day full of stressful, last minute school assignments. Tuesday is a bitch that is treating me poorly due to my own mistreatment of Monday.

If these two involve Wednesday in their evil plan I’m going to have to take some drastic actions. So far my plan is to sleep completely through the both of them next week.

That’ll show ‘em.

Monday: “HI SARAH!!!”

Sarah: “Ugg, really, you again?”

Monday: “YES! Hop out of bed. Go to work. Get your Monday on. Let’s go!!!”

Sarah: “Seriously, why must you be so in my face? Tuesday is a much nicer day. You’re just impossible to deal with, and frankly, a bit of a motherfucker.”

Monday: “Sarah, that’s not nice. What did I ever do to you?”

Sarah: “Well, for starters, you have a way of ruining my time with Sunday, and Sunday and I are tight. We’re like the BFFs of the week.”

Monday: “Maybe I’m in your face because I’m jealous of your relationship with Sunday, and Saturday too, for that matter. In fact you are so much nicer to every other day.”

Sarah: “IT’S BECAUSE I HATE YOU! Now get out of here and let me pretend I’m in bed with Sunday.”

Monday: “Whore.”

Sarah: “Asshole.”

Monday: “Slut.”

Sarah: “ENOUGH! I’m getting up, but I still hate you.”

It’s been a rough week and it’s only Wednesday. Thankfully some dead presidents gave me an upcoming long weekend. I need it. Badly.

Yesterday I got home from school and noticed something odd about my reflection in the mirror. There, in my messy ponytail, I found two pens. I don’t recall sticking them in my hair, but I’ve had very little sleep this week so I don’t recall much. And worse? Only one of those pens belongs to me.

At the start of my second class I realized I had lost my pen, so I borrowed one from a girl sitting next to me. I somehow managed to misplace my pen, and her pen IN MY FREAKING UNWASHED HAIR! Did I mention the part where I’m running on very little sleep?

Thankfully it wasn’t a math class because I could have easily stuck a calculator in this mess and not noticed.

I should never be allowed to talk to strangers. I always say something stupid that I later over-analyze. Last weekend was no different…

I stopped at a convenience store on my way home from spin class, and as I was paying for my drink the cashier attempted to exchange simple pleasantries.

“How is your day going?”

“OK I guess, but I could really do without the ass chaffing my new bike shorts are causing.”

I can only guess that his complete silence was due to his extreme discomfort in discussing my ass. Really he should consider himself lucky that I didn’t try to talk about my lady bits with him. RLO may or may not be giving me the silent treatment for trying to show him my chaffing over dinner.

People are so freaking sensitive these days. With that in mind, I’m going to follow the below script for each and every conversation I encounter with a stranger:

“How is your day going?”

“Great, thanks for asking.”

Sure it’s boring as hell, but it’s just so much easier. That precious time I would have spent obsessing over the conversation is time that could be dedicated to watching trashy reality television shows. Or scratching my ass.

I’m going to share another embarrassing bathroom moment. I am well aware that I have far more humiliating moments than most people. I think this is because I never bother thinking before speaking. That coupled with the fact I don’t have a filter results in way too many ‘Sarah-ness’ moments.

I hate walking into the office bathroom and having it smell bad. Of course I hate the smell, but even worse I hate someone attributing that smell to me.

For example, at my last job I was in the bathroom washing my hands when a fellow employee walked in. The bathroom was especially stinky and I didn’t want her thinking it was me so I said, “I swear that disgusting stench isn’t from me. It was a stink bomb before I arrived. Someone must have really had some bad food for lunch.” She looked at me and said, “That was me. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you with my intestinal system.”

FUCK.

What does one do in that situation short of disappearing into thin air? I felt like an asshole, apologized and walked out.

I have yet to figure out why so many of my humiliating life moments seem to take place in the bathroom, and until I do it’s best to probably just avoid public restrooms altogether.

Unrelated: does anyone know if you can buy space diapers online?

I want everyone to learn from my mistakes. Unless I hate you, if I hate you I want you to suffer the same humiliation because I’m sort of a horrible person like that.

I never bother checking to make sure there’s toilet paper in public restroom stalls before entering the stall. Call me irresponsible if you must, but I’d rather you call me adventurous.

Yes, this actually is that kind of post. Deal with it.

Yesterday at school I found a seat in class, asked the guy next to me to watch my bag and then made a quick trip to the bathroom. It was far too late when I realized there wasn’t any toilet paper in my stall. I panicked. There’s always the drip-dry option, but I didn’t want to walk into class late. I called out to the other person I could hear in the bathroom for help. She kindly obliged and handed me a wad of paper. When I walked out of the stall she was washing her hands and I thanked her again. I told her she saved me from ten minutes of the drip-dry method. She gave me a weird look and rushed out.

Kids today are so shy about taking about their vagina’s with strangers.

I finished washing my hands and walked back into class. I sat down, thanked the guy for watching my bag and then pulled out my computer to take notes. In the process I bumped the girl sitting on the other side of me. I hadn’t taken the time to look at her until that moment. Of course it was the bathroom girl. I smiled at her, but she looked away.

This is why I’ve decided to break up with Jesus. I’m sick of this sort of thing happening to me. If Jesus is indeed a savior, wouldn’t he have saved me from this sort of embarrassing situation? Seriously, he’s so fired right now.

Imaginary boyfriends are the most generous boyfriends of all.  My imaginary boyfriend knows exactly what to buy me for Christmas.  No silly gifts that I won’t use, or that are too generic.  He buys me the exact same things I would buy for myself.

Not only is my imaginary boyfriend generous, but also incredibly smart.  He crossed out the tags on the gifts from Kelli and wrote in his name.  GENIUS! I can’t help but love him more every day.

My blog finally grew up a little bit. Calm down, that doesn’t mean I won’t talk about dog farts, dry humping and using as much profanity as possible. It just means this blog now has a PO box, which you can find on the contact page.

After getting my fair share of hate mail lately I decided if someone is going to take the time to write me a hate filled message the least they could do is buy a fucking stamp and mail it.  I’d really like a handwritten account of just how horrible I am.  It will come in handy each time my mother tires to remind me that she raised a sweet and caring daughter.  I can hand her the book and instantly prove her wrong.

While I was at the post office in line I saw a man that looked vaguely familiar, but couldn’t place him.  And then it hit me: if a man looks familiar chances of me making out with him at some point in my life is 100%. Not just any make-out session either, this particular time involved dry humping.  NOT BY MY CHOICE!  I was so disgusted that I had no choice but to block his name from my mind and forget about his very existence.

I walked out to my car without saying hello.  NOT because I’m rude, but because I knew I’d accidentally say “Happy Dry Humping” instead of “Happy Holidays.”  So really I”m pretty thoughtful.  Maybe there’s no need for handwritten hate mail after all!

Finally someone got my title correct: master.

My hands are orange today.  ORANGE!  Which is not even my favorite color, though it was Frank Sinatra’s favorite color in case you care.

I want you to read this next part closely and take heed.

When going to the bathroom in the middle of the night you should always turn the bathroom light on.  I don’t care how tired you are, or how much your throat hurts.  Turn that motherfucking light on, because otherwise when you reach for lotion after you wash your hands you will accidentally grab the bottle of self-tanner from the drawer and slather it all over your poor little dry hands.

Orange hands don’t suit me.  I look like George Hamilton, which sucks because I have a date tonight.  But don’t you worry I’ll insist he calls me George all night, which may prove to be awkward for him, but entertaining enough for me that he’ll agree to it.

This completes your public service announcement Friday.

You’re welcome.