Labor Day. I'm not really sure what the point of it is, since all the stores are open anyway, but any chance I get to get in a few extra hours of precious sleep I'll take. Such was the case yesterday, as I layed peacefuly on the bed, wrapped snugly in an oversized blanket, dreaming of sugarplums or something, when suddenly I hear, "Guess who died?"
Still groggy, I ask who.
"Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter."
"Really? How?"
"A stingray punctured his heart."
"A stingray? Really?"
Well, great. How am I supposed to sleep now? I was bummed out for the rest of the day. I kept thinking about stingrays. She did the same thing to me when Christopher Reeve died. You can't just tell someone that somebody died first thing in the morning. What the hell is that? You've got to let them wake up a little first. Geez.
On the bright side, Brianna came home yesterday! Which of course would be significant to you if I'd mentioned that she's been in South Carolina with her grandparents all last week. She was in South Carolina with her granparents all last week. Maybe she'll write about her trip.
Anyway, I think people should wait until at least after breakfast to talk about death. What do you guys think?
