Everyday is like Sunday

It was shaping up to be another Sunday of laying around and reading old New Yorkers, especially since I tripped off a karaoke stage yesterday and hurt my foot. Unlike my string of foot damaging drinking exploits from two years ago, this was not a drunken fall; this was the Metal Gods punishing me for my blistering rendition of "Barracuda" for a room full of leeringly lonely Polish alcoholics.

Anyhow, my intellectual Sunday was ruined by repeated watching of and raucous laughter at this YouTube video I was hipped to by my Best Friend. What the F?! This is my gift to you. It is a lonely day, a self-pity day. I looked up "loneliness" on Google Images and duh--super downer stock photographs and this Marc Chagall painting. You have God, you have life, your lamb can play the fiddle--but all alone is all we are, no? Sometimes you feel like a terminal outsider, and your fucking cat eats her own back paws instead of learning an entertaining skill, and you'd rather read your roommate's "Entertainment Weekly: Idol Edition" than read the Bible. It's okay. It's Sunday.