Painted

I stink.

My hair is frizzy.

My hands are covered in various residues.

I may still have traces of paint on my eyelashes.

I know I do on my cheek.

The strawberries are not cut up.

The salads are not finished nor put away.

The laundry lies damp and wet in its respective machines.

I have not packed.

And at this rate, instead of reading luxuriously on Justin's work's yacht tomorrow (while he works, poor sleep-deprived guy), I'll probably be dozing. And embarrassing myself by my head rolling around my shoulders and finally settling in awkward positions that will make my neck hurt when I wake up.

I fought the bathroom and the--bathroom won. I fought the bathroom and the--bathroom won...

Well, no, those aren't the right words. Think, Liz, think!! Aha. We are fighting the bathroom, and it's a draw... we are fighting the bathroom, and it's a draw.

P.S. Come on girls, where are you?! I'm embarrassing myself out here by myself!

Night night.