My closet just committed suicide.

Number 1 I just looked at the word 'closet' and I feel like I spelled it wrong. That may be because I'm residually drunk/inebriated. Of course.

The point being that Sorcia came over today and we tried to lay out in the gale force winds snd that didn't work out so she decided that I needed a big girl room to accompany my big girl bed so she rearranged my room.

Here is the awesome sauce part: the roommate likes it.

Here is the part that blows: My closet honestly committed suicide whilst I tried to get some shoes down.

It honestly said 'Screw you Anna Gray. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Get rid of some of these clothes. I refuse to hold them up anymore.' So the entire closet mechanism came out of the wall and kamikazied itself. (Is that a word?)

So now I have this awesome grown up room and my closet literally represents an upchucking of my winter clothes. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Oh that's right, move on with my regular life because now my closet is an actual representation of my emotional state. You already know that my emotional response to anything is to either puke or sob so we're good there.

Hence the bulimia.

But on another note of the thing of which I cannot speak, we're slowly inching forward. We *almost* had a breakthrough tonight but apparently basketball camp is really important around these parts. Shit. I've said too much. Never mind that. Fuck, now people will google my blog and find it. Shiiiiiiiit.

I'm used to sacrificing for the good of the team but good God, this is a whole new and different commitment to the good of the basketball team. What did I get my Dad for Father's day you ask? I didn't fuck the assistant coach of the local basketball team so he could concentrate.

We had better be decent this season. I've totally contributed.

Seriously, Happy Father's Day Dad.

And if you want a giant wool coat, I have several. I'm having a suicide sale. Cheap cheap cheap.