Today feels like a Wednesday. It is, in fact, a Tuesday. Fact: this is the first week I’m working a regular 8-5 M-F work week. Due to weekend conferences, holidays, and afternoons off, I’ve never worked one of these at my job before. We do have a potluck tomorrow so perhaps I can pretend it’s a ragin’ party. I made pesto pasta salad, and I don’t know about you, but that was always one of our requirements for a damn good time in college.

Speaking of college, tomorrow’s date is 7/13. For anyone who ever had the pleasure of stepping foot inside the glorious place with the same address, we ask that you observe the holiday by getting black out drunk wherever you are. Unfortunately for everyone who actually had to live there, we all (and yes, I’m included myself as a resident) have big kid jobs and might have one light domestic beer before calling it a night.

I feel absolutely terrible for bemoaning my long distance relationship when there are thousands of military families out there living without their loved ones for very scary years on end, but occasionally I do get very sad, self-pitying and overall wallow-y about being apart from Neil for at least a year. My father might take this as an indication that we have moved up a Defcon (yes, he seriously inquires about our relationship as if it’s some sort of defense maneuver by the Armed Forces) which it probably is, but there’s no need to discuss that in the privacy of our own home when I can just announce it on a very public yet sparsely-read blog. I’m mostly upset about the hundreds of miles between us because I’m the sole caretaker of one Fergus M. Jackson, Esquire who, pardon my French, has been an asshole lately. It’s like he always wants to play with me or hang out on my lap or needs to go outside to pee or be petted and loved and fed. The nerve.