Give me Xanax or give me death. Or, you know, both.

I woke up this morning, flipped on my Krups, and hopped in the shower. As I lathered up, the coffeemaker staged a revolt and brewed 12 cups of Major Dickason’s blend all over the floor. So at 9:30am, I was on my hands and knees, stark naked, mopping up a liter of dark roast.

The thought crossed my mind that, perhaps, it was not to be a banner day.

I slipped into a new pair jeans from Urban Outfitters, bought only yesterday in a wardrobe-related meltdown, and headed over to the studio to work on relinking media in our AVID. It’s worth saying here that I’m no expert – I know enough about the NLE to keep me from being dangerous, but that’s mostly because I don’t mess around with things I don’t understand. I spent several hours with Laura, our sainted editor, perusing a pile of manuals and texting back and forth with my boss from the FRONTLINE days in an effort to get our media back online, and we were really beginning to make some progress when I noticed a funky smell emanating from somewhere around my legs.

“Um, so, sorry,” I said, to nobody in particular. “I think my cat pissed on my jeans this morning.”

We hit a wall after five hours of work, so me and my cat piss pants headed back to Eastie. Of course I took the most asinine route ever, got stuck in traffic on Storrow Drive, and my wipers don’t really work, but I was excited to get home and finish up the Christmas gifts I’d been making for my dad and my sisters.

About these gifts: over the past three weeks, I’ve worked on them every night. Not just like a little work, I’m talking HOURS and HOURS spent crouched over our coffeetable, gluing and pasting and all that jazz. One night last week, insomnia-driven and goal-oriented, I actually worked on them until 5am. No small feat, these presents.

So I let myself into the apartment, toting bags and craft supplies and my computer and my purse, and as soon as i walk in the door I’m assaulted by the same acrid odor that has now become so familiar to me, the same odor that I was smelling all afternoon on my new jeans. And, of course, where would it be coming from but my almost-finished Christmas gifts which, as luck would have it, were piled on my grandmother’s red velvet loveseat. So the loveseat reeks, the gifts are ruined, and I am either going to trade the fucking cat for a pile of rocks or throw myself off a bridge.

On the upside, we just got the official word that the film is fully funded. So I guess I can afford to buy presents instead. But that’s not really any consolation.

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