29…odd number…new developments including, but not limited to, new boyfriend and new career path…Chunk is shrinking…I predict a good year. Like the year I was finally old enough to shave my legs after having to wear pants in 90 degree weather the entire summer prior to my first razor blade. Except I’m thinking this year will be even better than that one because now there is the Mach 3 Turbo.

I got rid of the birdfeeder because Christine FREAKED ME OUT about the mice. But thanks, Christine, because I totally would rather have found that out from you than find a critter scurrying around. The last time I was faced with a mouse, I didn’t sleep in my apartment for a week…and then I bought a cat. Tony won’t let me have a cat, and I don’t think my parents are up for a houseguest.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m one year minus one day away from being 30 or if I’m just PMSing, but I have cried nine times in the past three days, and not even over anything good, like a good fight or a fall down the stairs with a hearty head bump. Mostly I have just been crying for no reason. Like this morning when that SUV cut in front of me on the highway and I almost missed my exit, and then passed the street I needed to turn on and consequently almost missed my bus. Or yesterday when I was listening to my new Beyonce CD and her voice moved me to goose bumps and tears. But not just tears, blubbering, tight throat, sobbing tears. Or the time I cried just because I don’t think I had anything better to do. It brought a new meaning to the phrase, “bored to tears”, and then I had to laugh at myself for rolling that one around in my head for at least seven minutes real time. But also? I think my boobs shrunk. I can’t afford to lose any more boob.