I slipped and fell on my ass (and on a puddle of water) on my way to work last night. NOT FUN. I had sent my supervisor a message that I was going to be late because it was raining heaven and hell outside— apparently, the rain sort of made its way to my floor’s hallway, too. I walk back to my studio, take off my jeans, my shirt and my rubber flipflops; sit on my bed, whip out my phone and tap in another message for my supervisor: “TL, nadulas ako waaaaah. On my way to get a cab. *@&!#$^@#^%^@$%!”

She replies with an “Awww =( That’s what I call dedication! Ü”

I made my way caaaarefully down five flights of stairs. On the third landing, I almost slip— I grab the railing just in time, and end up breaking my cigarette in half. Sacrifice.

Dedication schmedication. I only changed shirts and my bag, so I came into the office with the left butt-side of my jeans soaking wet. And now they’re smelly. Puh. Or I think they are. I’m not about to ask someone to sniff them for me.

I’m cooking dinner for D Saturday night. I was about to say “It kinda sucks, though, cos he has work at 4am” until I got confused. I’m off this weekend, he’s off this Sunday. He works the 4am to 1pm shift. So does that mean he’s off Saturday night, too?

I gotta go shoot him an email.

It’s just going to be a simple dinner. Pasta, probably. And cookie dough ice cream. I’m gonna play the lazy girl part and just buy a jar of ready-made pesto.

Doesn’t he have plans with his girlfriend? Hmmm.

Argh, I’m confused.