Friday, February 18, 2011
Oh February. You are such a fickle month. You always feel so much longer than you actually are. I would prefer to spend all 28 days in bed with the shades drawn, a hot mug of tea and several piles of books and magazines to read. Instead, my job dictates that I slave away under mountains of paperwork and spend my days pretending to tolerate the masses when in reality a string of inaudible curses escape my mouth every time the phone rings.
"You ass hat. I hate you."
Stop asking questions! Don't you understand the internet was invented so you can find your answer online instead of bothering me?!?"
"I curse the day you were born. Shit Bucket."
That's pretty much how my day goes.
All I really want to do is fly far far way to the magical world of Palm Springs where I would spend my days lounging by the pool wearing vintage '50s-style bathing suits with red lipstick and my nights parked at the bar wearing sequined mini-dresses and unbearably high platforms.
Images: Pottery Barn and The Parker Palm Springs