I feel like crap. I am tired. I feel run down. Dinner is not sitting quite right. And I think I am getting another cold. I am already curled up on the couch in my pj's dozing off. I can barely keep my eyes open. As my grandmother used to say, "they are like two pee holes in the snow." But, for some reason I keep glancing at the TV. My husband is playing the new Saints Row.
The irony is not lost on me. Here I am, a complete blob on the couch, looking like I've been run over, feeling like I just snorted a jar of preschool paste and my husband is manipulating his sexy and scantily clad Saints character as she hangs out of a helicopter like the goddess of gang.
Her name is Rosalita. He went for a sporty Hispanic spice theme when he created her in the Saints Row Initiation Station days before the game even launched. Her hair is so black it shines blue and her boobs are so big I get a little embarrassed when I find myself staring at them. He dressed her in tight black leggings, a tiny bandeau top and a cropped red jacket. She has a lower back tattoo.
I hate Rosalita, but I can't stop watching Saints Row. When it rains there, the streets glisten. Maybe if I fall asleep here on the couch I will be transported to Steelport where all my wildest dreams will come true. Purple is my favorite color.
Or, maybe I should just go upstairs, take NyQuil, and pass out on my bed like a sensible person.