Head, meet Pillow

Y'all, I'm gonna be straight up: I. Am. Exhausted.

Even though this week was far better than last, as far as that whole getting more than 2 hours of sleep per night thing goes, for some reason I'm still looking forward to my Friday night so I can sleep, not so I can party.

On a sidenote, when did I grow up? When did this happen, and how can I reverse it?

Friday nights were invented for partying, were they not? 

Negative, Batman. Friday nights are meant for flannel pajamas, four glasses a glass of Pinot, and catching up on DVR on the couch beneath a dog-print fleece blanket.

Oddly enough, the face of both Alexa personas is pretty similar.
Fun fact: Sometimes I {unintentionally} sleep with my eyes not quite closed. Creepity Creep Creepins, I know.

And here in Bloglandia, Fridays are also for letters!

Dear Assholes, aka down-the-street neighbors: I can see your backyard from my house, and therefore I can also see your two pitiful dogs leashed up to a stake back there all damn day, barking at everything {not because they're bad dogs, but because they don't know any better} and looking mighty neglected.

So, in case you were wondering about that Animal Control officer who came by your house yesterday to do an animal welfare inspection, I'm raising my hand loud and proud to let you know ~ I called the cops on your shady asses. You're on their radar and I'm not even sorry. Your dogs deserve better than that, and if you're gonna own pets {ya know, those living, breathing, 4-legged things hangin' around your house?}, treat them like they deserve to be treated. They're precious babies who depend on you for survival, so man up and be responsible, or you can say Hello to {1} AC officers showing up at your door often, and {2} The uncontrollable rage of an animal lover who just ain't havin' it. I WILL sic The Hollybug on you, and you WILL NOT enjoy it.

Goo'day, dudes.

Dear Googlers, AGAIN: I thought we'd cleared this up, that you're supposed to stop putting weird terms into the search bar and then clicking on my blog when I pop up on the 37th page, but apparently you suck at taking directions.

I don't recall a post in which I was a naked lady with a dog between my legs {Isn't that animal abuse? See above... I don't like that shit}, but apparently in some corner of Googs, that happened and now my blog has all but been defecated on. Thanks.

Dear Glenn: I don't care how long we've been married, looking at your left hand and seeing a wedding ring on it is the hottest thing in the entire world. Every day you make me so glad I put a rang on it.

Also great? The hilarious speeches given at our wedding.

Dear JayOhBee: Work, sometimes you suck. Don't get me wrong, sometimes you're also pretty awesome; but often I find myself focusing on the suck part, and lately I've come to realize that's just wrong. I'm not gonna lie and say I leap out of bed every morning excited to come hang out with you, but I'm damn lucky, especially in this economy, to know I have an office I can walk into every day, a paycheck I can count on twice a month, and a source of great satisfaction when I finish a project and am proud of my hard work. Ya know, job, you're aight.

Dear Melting Pot cheese & chocolate: You might wanna look into some protective padding or the like, because I'm comin' at you next week full speed ahead. May or may not bathe in your goodness. Advanced apologies if that's how it all goes down.

Besides thinking ahead to a delicious dive into dippers, my weekend is about to consist of cooking, cleaning, and relaxation. Again, I state my above question: WHEN DID I GROW UPPPP?

Happy freakin' weekend, y'all!