I. Am. Exhausted.

I feel kind of bad for Tony because for the next three weeks, I will be practically invisible. He asked me this morning if it would be inappropriate if he went out and got a part-time girlfriend to fill in for me. And then I asked him if it would be inappropriate if I stapled his ball sac to the front porch and left him there.

I’m also completely frustrated with my weight loss endeavor. PMS is sabotaging my efforts, and I am really irate with the basement situation right now. In order to get to my treadmill, I must swing across a drywall dust-infested room on a rope, climb a pile of shit, repel down another pile of shit, and then stack some more shit in a pile where there is some free floor space (there is none) so that I can even stand on the treadmill. I’m telling you right now, I can not work under these conditions. And I can not work over them either. And I would bet my next three paychecks that nothing will be done about it for the next three weeks, until I get a spare day to do it myself. Because that’s how it is when you’re the full-time girfriend and chubby.

My plan of action looks something like this:
Drink excessively.


I find myself being able to manage my study time more effectively in a public environment. What this means is that I have found Panera Bread to be the mecca of exam preparation, and money that I don’t have is now flittering away because how can you possibly sit in a booth at Panera and not buy anything? Don’t they kick you out for that? Well, if they don’t kick you out, don’t they talk about how they really want to with their coworkers in the back of the kitchen and then stare at the girl who won’t buy anything but is highlighting and post-it noting her way to a career in ass wiping and needle sticking? I believe that they do. And that is why I am sure to order an $11 dinner so that I am justified in occupying the corner booth for three hours and not apologizing one bit to the high school girls who are looking for an empty seat during their post-shopping trip on summer vacation. Ah, those were the days! Free time! Shopping! Tans!

Now it’s No time! Budgets! and Skin Cancer Scares! and I’m not even thirty yet!! And? I’ve totally noticed I am getting wrinkles around my eyes. I’m not ready for this! I! Am! Not! Ready!! I asked Tony how old he thought I looked and he said 25, but I think he really just didn’t want me to whip my lemonade in his face or utilize any more exclamation points in this paragraph!

Plan of action:
Drink excessively with eye cream slathered on face.