Boys are confusing. One minute they are wallowing in pain, the next they are telling you they'd be your wingman if there was someone to wingman for, they next they are biting your head off because you stated that you hated to agree with them on a certain point (hate that the point it right, not that I hate to agree - correct? that's what I thought, too), and the next you're sharing a smoke outside and laughing about Dune. I don't get boys. Or perhaps I do more than I believe, and I'm trying not to think about it.
Either way, none of it matters. In 12 hours I will be primping and priming and getting myself ready for a glorious weekend of good friends, good food, and - if I have anything to say about it - a serious amount of flirt. I will be dressed up and made up everynight, something that rarely occurs once, let alone continuously, and will be making breakfast on Sunday for some of the people I hold dearest in this world.
How silly is it that what I can't wait most for is waking up Sunday morning and baking bread while listening to showtunes and sea chanteys in my flannel? Hee!
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