I have decided that I am entirely too popular. I need to piss some people off. (Maybe you!)
I had some kind of party or get-together or gathering or box social to go to every night this week, which seriously cramps my TV-watching lifestyle. Add in the fact that my JOB is INSANE, my blogging (gah! journaling! weblogging! diarying!) lifestyle is like, dead. Waaaay down on the list of things I need to do, just below writing an angry letter to TiVo for recording fucking NORTH SHORE instead of The Apprentice because it screwed up the channels or something, which meant when I finally got home after a shindig with all my jet-setting friends last night and went to watch The Donald and I was confronted with SHANNEN DOHERTY.
(Although last night was super-fun, as it involved a lot of cheese, tequila, gossip and me schooling a group of coworkers on the term "fuck buddy.")
Still. Damn TiVo.
(Confidential to TiVo: I don't mean that! I love you! You can record tonight's repeat episode! I forgive you! Come back!)
Also, I am gaining weight like it is going out of style. Another reason I need to piss off some friends so they stop inviting me places where I can eat lots and lot of cheese.
Oh! And for the first time since the Great Amalah Brain Meltdown of 2004, there is a wee tiny chance that I could be pregnant, but I'm probably not, but I can't stop thinking that I might be, which is driving me crazy and also to tequila, but then I'm all guilty that I'll end up with a little web-footed frog baby instead of this precious little thing that makes me weep every time I look at it.
(Confidential to self: Please stop with the run-on sentences. They are called PERIODS. Use them. Love them. Because you'll probably be getting one of your very own in another week or so because YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT, YOU BITCH ASS CRAZY GIRL.)
(Confidential to all concerned readers: I'm cured! Off the Crazy Pills and into therapy where I've determined that my problems are actually emotional [whee!] and not so much with the chemical, and I was relying on the pills too much and also labeling myself as "sick" thus taking a passive role in my recovery and blah blah blah psychobabble blah. Anyway, I can safely get pregnant without giving birth to a Prozac baby, but I'm not going near the Clomid for a long, long time because DAMN, that shit messed me up and GOOD, so we're doing commando cycles with the possibility of pregnancy falling somewhere in the one in seventy gazillion chances range.)
(Again with the run-ons! I blame the cheese.)
Oh, and ask me how many Christmas gifts I have bought people. And how many cards I have sent out. If you guessed ZERO, you are correct and have won a personalized non-denominational holiday card from me, which you will receive sometime next June.
And I'm sorry for that. Except that I'm not, because I really would rather you be mad at me and stop asking me to dinner on good TV nights. But not TOO mad, for the sake of my little cheese baby, who will need gifts and things. She likes tequila.