3:39 p.m. - 2008-04-23
hormones suck.
I don't want to edit this newsletter. I don't want to write my stupid articles. I don't want to copy, I don't want to paste, I don't want to do anything but eat copious amounts of chocolate, drink citrus drinks and munch on salty crispy stuff.
And whine. Did I mention that I want to whine? I'm feeling fat and ugly and tired and fat and out of condition and ignored and fat. Don't tell me it's bloating--no one gets thigh bloat. No one.
Lani called to see if I wanted a fun mask to wear to the masquerade party we're going to on Saturday. Luckily, she caught me in that middle part, so my reply was an unenthusiastic nonetheless polite, "no." Normally, I'd have been all over the concept. But, UNLIKE EVERY OTHER WOMAN ON THE PLANET, when the hormones strike, shopping and spending money is a waste of time. All I want is a stack of paperback books and a cup of M&M's with a cup of pretzel sticks on the side. And a large glass of cold ginger ale. Without ice.
Note that "responsibility" was not on that list. I don't want to brainwash children, I don't want to do the newsletter, I don't want to talk to my friends (e-mail is another matter). I want to hide in the written word and not come out for days. Well, hours anyway.
I know this was a perfectly useless report, but I'm not up to recounting drama today. Maybe tomorrow, if I get far enough along with the packing....
