Salutations, readers. Did you think I had abandoned you?
I should begin by saying that the sickness has left my system – literally, and glory hallelujah. The only person that knows the specifics of my Monday is my mom, and I’m uncomfortable with even her knowing. It was… I can’t even go there. Let’s change the subject.
So here I am, back in Denver.
Time, catapult me out of August already. August has spread me thinner than a hipster – and it isn’t even over yet. I hate running on no reserves.
I’ve said before that I believe that our number one act of spiritual worship should be getting enough sleep. Last weekend, Greta told me that she recently read that the most important factor in a woman’s happiness is whether or not she is well-rested. How do parents of babies function? This is an absolute mystery to me. I don’t even own a house plant, and yet I am crashing – crashing like… why is the only metaphor I can think of “like Kanye at a Taylor Swift speech”?
When I’m crashing, I lose creativity, and get all inconsolable about things like the cardboard box in the corner of my living room. It’s just sitting there – but it’s just been sitting there since I moved in in January. I don’t know where to put it. I don’t know what to do with it. It’s just THERE, taunting me with its displacement.
Twenty-eight years old is too old to get zits – but then again, Annie Parsons has never been a quitter.
I get irrationally annoyed at bad writing (in the interest of spying on people, I subscribe to some truly horrible blogs), and text messages in which every sentence ends in exclamation points!!!! This is not the way you talk!!!!! Calm the hell down!!! You’re wasting your 160 characters!!!!!
Give my hackles a chance to settle down, and then I’ll tell you about my trip to Seattle last weekend. Crashing or not, I can tell you right now that it was blissful.