Thursday, Thursday, gotta get down on Thursday.

Rebecca Black had it all wrong - my understanding is that THURSDAY, not Friday, is THE day to party.  In our first year, Jimi and I referred to Thursday as High Friday - we'd fill our house with friends and laughter and junk food and watch TV or play games and drink booze and pass the peace pipe and all was right with the world.  We don't do that anymore - four years later he's got the 'betes and nights of diving face-first into cartons of ice cream had to be cut way back.

See?  I start typing and then I hit a brick wall and everything that comes into my head sounds stupid and ridiculous and I don't want to write any of it.  So I write nothing instead, which I know probably isn't the right answer, so fine, here, i'll just write it all and if it sucks it sucks.

(Usually, you'd hope an outburst like that would lead up to some awesome drama, like maybe I found out Jimi's having an affair or my boy dog used to be a girl dog, but sorry to disappoint, that was just a random outburst directed completely at myself and there's no good dirt to follow the build-up - I'm such a disappointment.)

I'm taking Stacy shopping this weekend to buy her a BellaBand - she's something like 14 weeks now (15?), and none of her pants fit anymore.  Hopefully this will get her through the next few weeks and give her a chance to collect a new wardrobe with room for her growing belly.

When we were little (4 and 5?  5 and 6? 3 and 4?), Papaw hunted squirrel and rabbit and deer on the Property.  I hated that he hunted - oh, it just seemed so cruel and horrible and awful.  Had he not seen Bambi?!  Did he not see how adorable and sweet and cuddly those little animals were?!  There wasn't even that much meat on them, and McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't have any squirrel/rabbit/deer nuggets to offer, so obviously it wasn't even REAL food.  The hunting and killing of such innocence was wholly wrong, and I wasted no opportunity to inform my loving, impressionable, younger cousin of my deep thoughts on the subject.  I indoctrinated her with the utter injustice of the entire situation - I secured a promise from her that she would never again eat the flesh of those innocent little creatures.

But one morning, she found herself at Granny and Papaw's breakfast table, and in front of her was set a plate piled high with piping hot fried rabbit - her personal favorite before my "Save the Woodland Creatures" campaign.  She looked longingly at the plate of meat, then at me.  "Stace, go on and have some," says Granny, getting up to lift a piece onto her plate.  "I can't," Stacy says, loyally, "Natalie says those are God's creatures and we shouldn't kill God's creatures."  Granny launched into the reasons why my logic was right and wrong, and then told Stacy if she didn't want to eat any rabbit, she didn't have to.  Stacy again stared at the plate of hot battered rabbit - legs that had once hopped along the prairie.  Finally, her restraint broke - she reached for a leg, "They may be God's creatures, but they sure do taste good."

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I've been at work for an hour (I started that part up there at home), and already I've apologized twice today for being a bitch.  Maybe today isn't going to be my day.  Maybe I need to chill the fuck out. 

Okay.  Starting over - do-over! 

It's Thursday.  It'll be a good day - I mean, it has to be, right?  It's practically Friday.