I'm sure I'm not alone in having a nutty schedule as the holidays approach. The day job in marketing/PR requires me to attend a lot of social functions this time of year, which seems like a recipe for a month-long hangover.
Except that I just got hit with the head-cold from hell, so even expensive wine tastes like Nyquil now. I'm not in the mood to imbibe, and I'm sad to admit all the fancy appetizers people keep foisting on me taste like cardboard.
All that would be fine, except my realtor just called about showing the house this weekend, and I'm wondering if I can pass off cat fur and dirty dishes as the hot new decorator touches of the season. I don't have time to clean, because I just got my editor's revision notes for Mad Crush, plus there's work to be done for the any-minute-now release of my new interactive fiction title, Getting Dumped, and a book club meeting to attend and...
Wait. Why are you all playing those little violins?
No, I would not like cheese with my whine. I want to crawl into bed and hide there for a whole weekend. Maybe a week, if I can persuade someone naked to join me.
Sorry, guys. I've got nothing amusing for you today. Unless my brain actually does explode, in which case I promise to post pictures of the carnage.
For now, take care of yourselves, and promise you'll drink my share of the wine, OK?