Shittiest Sunday Ever

...though the funny part is, language aside, I'm neither all that angry nor all that surprised: Of course, I have to pull the POV piece out of my ass by tomorrow morning. Of course, Steve misheard "10:30 AM" for "11:30 AM", and left me standing in the cold for forty-five minutes; by the time I finally got fed up enough to just leave, I'd already missed the meeting with Michael McMaster and friends, and when I came back, Steve was sitting there waiting for me. With Cal. He'd probably still be there, if I hadn't shown up. Oh, and of course the other front wheel broke off the stroller, because hell, it'd only finally been fixed for what? A fucking DAY? Of course, infinity.

So I won't stay long. Cal is toothy and screamy and down in his crib, and he's staying there 'till I get a first draft. Steve has finally funked himself to sleep, because all this means to him isn't hey, wake-up call, time to maybe get a frigging cellphone and wear a frigging watch and take frigging responsibility for what I do or don't do but, instead, yet another prime chance to play the oh poor sinful me, I'm such a BAD person, I don't desrve to enjoy my own life and should mope around constantly, gazing at my own navel instead of keeping my child away from my wife while she's writing something we'll both receive money for, like I promised I would game. Cry me a river, bitch: World's smallest violin, right 'chere.

And...that's that.I'm done. No more time to BS, me. Because some of us don't get to act like fucking babies.