I must have tortured small, defenseless animals in a previous life

I've never seen this horrendous excuse for a film, but I've caught bits and pieces on tv. The other night, I watched a scene where Lohan trudges to a restaurant looking like hell, and is nearly kicked out because she cannot even afford a piece of apple pie. I rolled my eyes, decided she is the world's most robotic actress on earth, and then pondered a career in screenwriting.

Last night, as I slipped on a patch of ice in my garage (yes you read that correctly- it is effing freezing here), and found myself in a Twister-like position with my hair caught on the license plate screws of my mom's car, I began to think that I should not have been so quick to judge. Minus a real-life crippling drug addiction, I actually did resemble:

I told myself to remain calm. It doesn't get much worse than forcing yourself into a hybrid center split-one handed pushup position as you slowly bob your head up and down to test for the most effective unraveling process.

I genuinely believed that, too. Then I got into the shower today, and found two missed calls on my phone when I emerged. Two calls in eight minutes, from a woman who I had a final interview with on Tuesday. Her voicemail now informs me she will be on holiday through the New Year. I made certain to hang up before unleashing a series of expletives that would have made maximum security prison guards blush.

You know it's a harsh week when you find yourself thinking that forced stretching exercises beneath the hood of your car aren't so bad after all.