Homer popped into Scottsdale yesterday morning to take me out for breakfast. I don't think that makes him my Sugar Daddy® but it definitely makes him my Omelette Daddy®. It's always nice to see Homer. We once laugh about wildly inappropriate things that will no doubt secure our place in hell, if there were such a thing. Silly myths.

After that I puttered around the house pretending to do chores. Load of laundry here. Wash some dishes there. Work on a website for a bit. Uploaded photos.

Throughout the course of the day I could feel myself getting moody and cranky dreading the next morning. It is currently The Thing I Shouldn't Blog About™ which really frustrates me because this is suppose to be my outlet for getting shit out...therapy on a web server. But for many months, I don't feel like I have the freedom to do so here and THAT truly sucks.

So for the meantime, I hunker down and listen to Loverboy's "Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend" on the radio in my head and eventually my thoughts turn to tight, red leather pants and that makes me giggle. Aw, the Eighties. So much tragic excess accompanied by a Roland synthesizer.