Cassandra Wilson. Right. Another Fucking Google Trend.

Cassandra Wilson, huh? Just rolled out of bed. Or rather, dragged myself. Like a corpse being removed from a crime scene.

Felt like a crime scene in my mouth. Tastes like old pennies and regret.

Kids are already screaming downstairs. Not even 7 AM. Why does anyone have kids?

So I check my phone. See what fresh hell Google wants to serve up. And there she is. Cassandra Fucking Wilson.

Never heard of her.

Probably some jazz singer. Or an actress. Or maybe she won the lottery. Who gives a shit?

My lottery win would be a full night's sleep. And a silent house. For a year.

Not some celebrity trending. Means someone else is having a better day than me.

Probably has a perfectly manicured lawn. A quiet house. No kids drawing on the goddamn walls with permanent marker.

My kid thinks a wall is just a big piece of paper. And permanent means 'impossible for dad to clean'.

Cassandra Wilson. Good for her. Hope she's not hungover.

Hope she doesn't have to deal with a boss who emails on a Sunday morning. Asking for 'quick updates'.

There's nothing quick about my updates. Especially not today. My brain is soup.

I just want a coffee. And maybe to not feel like I wrestled a bear last night. And lost.

This is why I drink. To forget about all the Cassandras of the world. All the people who are doing just fine.

While I'm here. Trying to remember where I put my pants. And if I actually showered yesterday. Probably not.

Another trend. Another day. Another reason to crack open a cold one. Later. Much later. Or maybe sooner. Who knows.

It's Sunday. Who cares what Google thinks? I certainly don't.

Now, where's the paracetamol?