what a bitch.
ow. my head.
there’s something wonderful about plowing through a bottle of wine with a friend and chatting for three hours, but the only wonder i have this morning is why i thought that that was a good idea on a wednesday night.
i moved last week. to a super awesome location, as a matter of fact. the downside? i still work in nyc’s septic tank. and i currently travel 4 hours and 10 minutes a day to make it happen.
what could i do with an extra four hours a day, you ask?
- actually sleep 7+ hours a night
- exercise (oh, how vital that was to me but a year ago)
- take classes on something (singing! piano! italian! whatever!)
- read (reading on the train nauseates me)
- UNPACK MY APARTMENT!
- cook beautiful meals
- watch david cook slightly less beautiful but still delicious meals
- take long walks
- hang out in the park (which is half a block away)
- sing 5x more karaoke
- research dog training so we can actually get a dog in the coming months (squee!)
- actually be around when we get a dog in the coming months
- make something for my etsy store on a daily basis
- not cry when i get home, because i’m so tired.
if there were ever a time i wish i could just up-and-quit, this would be it. what would you do with 4 extra hours in your day?
nothing says “support” like a big swath of nothing behind your lower back.
i started taking minocycline about a month ago for my persistent case of pizza face, and hoooo boy. just started developing a headache, dizziness,and am having a hard time focusing. mister antibiotic, i’m afraid that our love just cannot be.
i’m tall and skinny. it’s 3 parts genetics, 1 part a whole lot of ballet when i was in my teens, 1 part sorta-decent diet and 1 part getting to the gym when i can (which right now is about once a week, if we’re going to stop being polite and start getting real, here). so why, jesus/god/universe, why must i be told to eat a sandwich on a weekly basis?
i eat food! sandwiches are awesome! and i’m not even talking invisible ones! bring on the meat! i’m just a bony genetic freak. other women, especially, seem to have a really hard time believing this. and like to comment on my weight, when really, it’s a wholly inappropriate thing to do.
world, it’s true: just because you’re bony, it doesn’t make you an anorexic making excuses. just sayin’.
it’s like a hangover, but without the fun part.