Dear Diary;
Getting pretty pissed off at the contractors working on my house. Every fucking time I ask when they’re gonna be finished, all I get is “due settimane Santo Padre…” Two weeks my ass. In which alternate timeline? At this rate, I’m gonna die before I get to live there.

Meanwhile, they’re planning an Easter egg hunt here this afternoon. Which will be fun – but that means egg salad for lunch on Monday. Which gives me gas. (Not the egg salad; just lunch…)