Mine hit at about 12:43 pm, and despite more than 6 hours of binge eating and comparing myself to other people on the internet, I still feel a little blah. I hope to see you out there in the world tonight, but my leave-the-house meter is dipping pretty far into the red. To be totally honest, the combination of Last of the Mohicans and a blanket that's far too warm for the season is whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Perhaps tonight's just a night for burrowing down under a faux fur blanket and the weight of two cats to sweat out what would normally be tears in an emotionally adjusted human being but has simply been transformed into chips-and-salsa-scented perspiration and a perma-scowl in someone like me.
(This scene gets me every time because this is exactly how I feel about the last peach Jelly Belly.)
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.