Sunday Awesome

A little long winded - but the animation is cute and sentiment is sweet too.

This morning - rather wonderful Modernist rant & shitty demo & Sunshine Through The Window. Bed too soft, sheets pooling in wrinkles I am luxuriating in the scents of sex and sleep & Sticky in last night's underwear.

Are you have sweetheart?

Because after nine and half hours of waiting tables, the only thing that's going to get me through this evening is whisky and the prospect of bed. Yesterday, I had a moment when I thought "What is wrong with these people! Do they think it's my job to wait on them or something?" Which made me laugh out loud, through my hospitality-related pain. Smile, though your heart is breaking, little Sarah. And then, today I broke more than just my heart. As a veritable waterfall of plates and glasses rained upon my head I could feel the last few vestiges of my soul just, gently, rip under the strain, like something stretchy that had stretched past it's breaking point. Elastic, or mozzarella or something. This meant that later I found myself crying into the sink over a Travelling Wilburies song. Here is a poem I have composed about my relationship with hospality, written in the "Teen Angst" style. Eggs, coffee. Everyday I go to work, these words ring throughout my head. Do you people want blood? Blood coffee? Blood eggs? The words are like little needles, little knives And they bury their way into my soft tissue. The tissue around my eyes, my brain - I can feel the pressure building. I worry about the potential for implosion. Imploding, folding into myself. Damaged Forever By eggs.