I don't need a nicotine patch. I smoke cigarettes.

Last night, I was sitting around watching Friends (season 3 disc one, home of my favorite episode, like, EVER . . . Look at me. I'm Chandler. Could I BE wearing any more clothes?) um, anyway. So I was sitting around watching Friends and thinking I should do something productive. But instead of doing that, I played Super Mario Brothers for a while. Not very long though because I SUCK SO HARD at it. Seriously. I'm terrible. And I get mad and throw the controller down and pout, only no one was home to see my world-class pouting last night so it was pointless. After I got angry because I used up my four lives within like five minutes (I am not exaggerating), I decided to do something really productive and clean.

It started with just cleaning my bathroom. I don't want to gross you out or anything, but it had been a really, really long time since I cleaned my bathroom. It's not my fault, though! I never feel like cleaning when I get home from work so I usually wait until the weekend. But the past couple of weekends have been so incredibly busy (or, you know, I was too hungover to be around cleaning products for fear of passing out and hitting my head on the edge of the bathtub and bleeding to death in my dirty, dirty hole of a bathroom) and I DIDN'T HAVE TIME. Also, I just really hate cleaning the bathroom.

Cleaning the bathroom led to changing Phoebe's litter box which led to vacuuming my room which led to changing my sheets which led to dusting the living room which led to vacuuming the living room which led to taking out all the trash which led to washing my hands because . . . ew, which led to Febrezing the entire apartment. Mmm. I also went through my drawers (heh) and picked out some t-shirts and pajama pants to get rid of. Because I don't think I need pajama pants that I've had as long as my high school diploma. True story.

By the time I was finished Monica Gellering everything, it was time to go to bed. And when I say go to bed, I mean lie in bed and stare at the ceiling (or Futuruma) until I sigh, give up, and get up and check my e-mail. I have trouble sleeping most nights, but Sunday nights are the worst. What with the sleeping til noon and all. I'll have to admit, though, it was really nice to get up this morning and not trip over the five pairs of shoes I normally have littering the floor around my bed. I only tripped over Phoebe. And that's normal. Because she hates me and is trying to kill me. Evil whore. Oh god, I think she heard me. You guys, I'm scared.