Look at the post below and come back. I direct you there because I can't even link to it. The post itself (not just the writing) is so jacked up that blogger won't allow me to link to it. Yikes.
I have no freaking idea folks. Not a clue. I keep re-reading its cryptic message, delivered from the realms of my subconscious and I am coming up with nothing. It is quite possibly both the funniest thing and the saddest thing I have ever written. Bacardi and Cranberry! I renounce thee! Really. I woke up the next morning and someone (I was the only person in my apartment that night) had poured a perfectly good bottle of rum down the sink and written "You SUcks" on the bottle with a sharpie.
I think it was just a bad batch of rum.
I think I'm not buying a rum for a few weeks, months, years, until they straighten out this mess. This will give me time to figure out how to get the candle wax out of my carpet, off of my coffee table and out of my damn couch that magically appeared the next morning and time to discover, why, exactly, I pulled all of my nylons and stockings out onto the floor of my closet and overturned the drawer they were in. Hidden messages from my brain stem? Brilliant schemes I need only drink too much to access again? The world will never know. I've had peeps over to my place (!) six times in less than a month, including a huge New Year's bash, and my apartment sustained no damage. I sit down to have a quiet evening with Bacardi, who I trusted, and wind up sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Who is the trusted blogger I speak of in the post below? Why do I reference Dr. Phil? Was I on to something good? Damnit, if only we knew.
If only we knew.