So Mrs. P is out of town this weekend, attending her kid brother's graduation from Valparaiso University.
You'd think this was a good thing, right?
It's a rare opportunity to wallow in my own crapulence. I should be drinking beer, farting, scratching myself, and blogging in my underwear. Instead, I spent the morning running errands, cutting the grass before thunderstorms roll in this afternoon, cleaning up in the house a little. I miss my wife, and she's only been gone five hours as I write this. I'm looking for ways to squeeze in a little life maintenance around the house to give her a kick when she comes back.
She's tamed me, dammit.
That's my problem. Or maybe it's my excuse. You can't break anything that doesn't want to be broken, after all. I spend my life these days crabbing about the office, looking for a jacket, and eating in bad diners crammed with senior citizens before grocery shopping with the Mrs.
And that really is a fucking problem. What's your problem? Better yet, what's your excuse?