soapboxdiner

Get in touch with this, bitch

Am I the only one who simply could not muster up one iota of interest in Janet's boob? Truly --- not. one. iota.

Let's move on.

I assembled my new bike today and rode my tush off - if anyone can call 20 minutes on level 3 tush removing. However, I have visions of misses sized clothing. I miss misses sized clothing. Pretty fun young hip misses sized clothing with pep and... shape.

I rode 4 miles today. Which leaves me entirely unimpressed.

Goals, right?

As you can see, I really have nothing of interest to discuss. I am just filling the minutes I would otherwise spend tossing and turning, as it seems I am in the midst of one fine bout of insomnia.

Last week, during my annual constitutional, the doctor counselled, "Perhaps you should consider going back into therapy. You know, get a tune up. A lube oil and filter, if you will. Check back in and get in touch with reality again."

Vaguely insulted would describe the moment, as I am sure we can all agree is the only true and proper reaction to such a situation - especially given the fact that I was naked and lounging in nice cozy stirrups while discussing this.

Because it's not that I'm out of touch with reality; I'm more... highly damned strung in it.

I would, however, find it incredibly nice to stop having anxiety attacks every damn day.

But on the other hand, this year I have yet to kill or maim anyone, quit a job, and/or selling all my worldly goods and move across country in the span of 14 days. So I think this would qualify as mighty fine progress, as far as seasonal mental defects go.

12:38 am - 02.08.04
previous | next

Home | Archives | Profile | Notes | DiaryLand | Random Entry