No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service...

Last week I was all alone in the apartment as the man was away for the week.

Normally, I'm okay with being alone, but that particular week it seemed as though I couldn't get my bearings.

Prime and best example of this? Read on...

I was getting ready to go to work on Wednesday and when I woke up, started going through the usual routine of my preparation for the work day. I got up, hopped in the shower, made my lunch, fed the cat, cleaned the litter box, dried and straightened my hair, and ironed my shirt.

There's always lots to do in the short hour between wake up and departure, but I always manage to get it done.

I puttered around the house in my wife-beater while I gathered my belongings; cigarettes, wallet, purse, and the bag which carried all my goodies for the work day: book, notebook, good pen, and goodies.

Once I had completed all of my tasks, I set about putting on my jacket, grabbed my keys, rubbed Jack's belly and slid into my flip flops.

I arrive at work, turn on the lights, music, and front window display, and prepare to run down the hall to grab my staple breakfast of Pepsi and an A&W Ham and Egger.

I pop outside for a quick smoke before work, chat with some of the other poor slags that have to work too, and go in to start my open.

I clock in, stash my bags in the back, and take off my coat.

Alas, I am not wearing a shirt.

WTF?

How did I forget my shirt you ask? I have no flippin' clue. At all.

I went to work in my wife-beater. Nothing more.

Feck. What do I do now?

What any other retard who forgot to wear a shirt to work would do of course; I bought a pyjama top and put that on.

I repeat...

FECK.