Well hello there.
Let's just pretend that we are old friends who run into each other at a party and one of us (me) remembers that one of us (me) was supposed to call you back that one day to make plans for lunch and didn't and then worried about it then forgot and then thought that you probably forgot too but by the pinchy way you said "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey" in that passive-aggressive sing-song voice then pointed your wine glass holding finger at me and smiled like Cruella De Ville sporting a new fur coat made from baby cockapoos which told me oh yea, you remember that I totally blew you off and somehow I'm going to pay.
But then I rush over and give you a big old bear hug and slap your ass and tell you 12 funny stories while refreshing your glass every 5 minutes and in no time we're bff's again and all is forgiven because hell, we all know I'm fucking fabulous and how can you be mad at me? You can't. So don't tell your boyfriend my ass looks fat in these pants when I walk away, alright? We were having such a nice time, don't spoil it.
Yes, so. I got through the scan and as my girlie Tru left in the comments it was clean. Which is a big YAY!! It looked better than last year which was better than the year before when I got the dreaded "We see something but aren't going to do anything about it so have a nice life thinking you have cancer raging through your body. Buh bye."
The whole scanning process SUCKS and I felt like shit for weeks but the outcome was great so great. You'd think I'd be great but no, not so much with the great.
I don't know exactly what is wrong with me because I am grateful and happy and all that but after a couple days of being elated through an icky sick fog I remember all the other things that are still wrong with me and I still physically feel like shit so my good news is short lived.
This year I didn't feel as bad for as long but haven't been able to shake the general feeling of having a mild case of the flu and walking around like a virtual zombie after getting scant more than a few hours of sleep a night. Right before the whole ordeal I'd been told I have situational and reversible fibromyalgia which explains my constant state of shit-feeling. Of course I was told to exercise and eat right and reduce stress and here, take this nasty drug made for epileptics to help you sleep, which I won't do.
Therefore I'm trying to uncrank myself and figure this new development out. Pair all of this with a job I fucking HATE working with people who are LAME and I've been sporting one giant pair of pissy pants for weeks.
I bought The Secret because Oprah told me too but I'm so cantankerous I'd rather shove it up her righteous ass then read it. I snarl at toddlers and flip off old ladies and laughed when Sanjaya was voted off of American Idol but really, that bitch needed to go. I squish snails and yell at sales girls and agree with Dr. Laura.
I'm tellin' ya. I've been a CRANK.
And I have no real elegant way of closing this verbal regurgitation so I'm going to discreetly sneak into the guest room where all the coats and purses are and quietly grab my things trying not to wake the drunk woman snoring on top of that leather jacket and slip out the front door. (No, I'm not leaving, it was a metaphor. Simile? Fake ending.) Ahem. OK, on to other things.
~~~~~
I started the South Beach Diet yesterday. I lasted 14 hours. GO ME!!
~~~~~
Hey, chick sitting in front of me at the movies with the greasy hair and ugly striped green shirt. Put your fucking cell phone away. I'm not kidding. I've been on a mean streak lately and if you don't shove that phone in your dirty white purse I'm going to pour the remains of my diet coke over your head and give you a courtesy lobotomy with the straw.
You see, when they play that nauseating song with the creepy dancing paper sacks it's not to simply entertain the likes of you and your white trash girlfriend. It's a message. A big, fat hint, close to a demand, right around the corner from a warning to be aware of your surroundings and the people sharing the same space as your mouth-breathing self and it is a simple fact of respect that you adhere to societal rules in a cinema.
Rules which allow other paying patrons with short tempers and quick fuses to enjoy a theatrical film without being FUCKING BLINDED IN THE PITCH BLACK ROOM BY YOUR GOD DAMN PINK JEWELED PHONE WITH THE BLUE KEYS AND SEARCHLIGHT SCREEN WHILE YOU TEXT THE GUY YOU'RE TRYING TO MAKE YOUR NEW BABY DADDY EVERY 4 FUCKING MINUTES!!
PUT. IT. AWAAAAAAAAAY. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.
~~~~~
Miss me? I missed you. Let's make out.
Let's just pretend that we are old friends who run into each other at a party and one of us (me) remembers that one of us (me) was supposed to call you back that one day to make plans for lunch and didn't and then worried about it then forgot and then thought that you probably forgot too but by the pinchy way you said "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey" in that passive-aggressive sing-song voice then pointed your wine glass holding finger at me and smiled like Cruella De Ville sporting a new fur coat made from baby cockapoos which told me oh yea, you remember that I totally blew you off and somehow I'm going to pay.
But then I rush over and give you a big old bear hug and slap your ass and tell you 12 funny stories while refreshing your glass every 5 minutes and in no time we're bff's again and all is forgiven because hell, we all know I'm fucking fabulous and how can you be mad at me? You can't. So don't tell your boyfriend my ass looks fat in these pants when I walk away, alright? We were having such a nice time, don't spoil it.
Yes, so. I got through the scan and as my girlie Tru left in the comments it was clean. Which is a big YAY!! It looked better than last year which was better than the year before when I got the dreaded "We see something but aren't going to do anything about it so have a nice life thinking you have cancer raging through your body. Buh bye."
The whole scanning process SUCKS and I felt like shit for weeks but the outcome was great so great. You'd think I'd be great but no, not so much with the great.
I don't know exactly what is wrong with me because I am grateful and happy and all that but after a couple days of being elated through an icky sick fog I remember all the other things that are still wrong with me and I still physically feel like shit so my good news is short lived.
This year I didn't feel as bad for as long but haven't been able to shake the general feeling of having a mild case of the flu and walking around like a virtual zombie after getting scant more than a few hours of sleep a night. Right before the whole ordeal I'd been told I have situational and reversible fibromyalgia which explains my constant state of shit-feeling. Of course I was told to exercise and eat right and reduce stress and here, take this nasty drug made for epileptics to help you sleep, which I won't do.
Therefore I'm trying to uncrank myself and figure this new development out. Pair all of this with a job I fucking HATE working with people who are LAME and I've been sporting one giant pair of pissy pants for weeks.
I bought The Secret because Oprah told me too but I'm so cantankerous I'd rather shove it up her righteous ass then read it. I snarl at toddlers and flip off old ladies and laughed when Sanjaya was voted off of American Idol but really, that bitch needed to go. I squish snails and yell at sales girls and agree with Dr. Laura.
I'm tellin' ya. I've been a CRANK.
And I have no real elegant way of closing this verbal regurgitation so I'm going to discreetly sneak into the guest room where all the coats and purses are and quietly grab my things trying not to wake the drunk woman snoring on top of that leather jacket and slip out the front door. (No, I'm not leaving, it was a metaphor. Simile? Fake ending.) Ahem. OK, on to other things.
~~~~~
I started the South Beach Diet yesterday. I lasted 14 hours. GO ME!!
~~~~~
Hey, chick sitting in front of me at the movies with the greasy hair and ugly striped green shirt. Put your fucking cell phone away. I'm not kidding. I've been on a mean streak lately and if you don't shove that phone in your dirty white purse I'm going to pour the remains of my diet coke over your head and give you a courtesy lobotomy with the straw.
You see, when they play that nauseating song with the creepy dancing paper sacks it's not to simply entertain the likes of you and your white trash girlfriend. It's a message. A big, fat hint, close to a demand, right around the corner from a warning to be aware of your surroundings and the people sharing the same space as your mouth-breathing self and it is a simple fact of respect that you adhere to societal rules in a cinema.
Rules which allow other paying patrons with short tempers and quick fuses to enjoy a theatrical film without being FUCKING BLINDED IN THE PITCH BLACK ROOM BY YOUR GOD DAMN PINK JEWELED PHONE WITH THE BLUE KEYS AND SEARCHLIGHT SCREEN WHILE YOU TEXT THE GUY YOU'RE TRYING TO MAKE YOUR NEW BABY DADDY EVERY 4 FUCKING MINUTES!!
PUT. IT. AWAAAAAAAAAY. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.
~~~~~
Miss me? I missed you. Let's make out.
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