Things have been better. There’s this one big thing that I can point to and say, “You. You are the culprit for this,” but that really doesn’t accomplish much except direct my focus on this shiftless blob of discomfort. What good is that?
For the record, I have measured no real gain from it yet.
Things might be better if I myself wasn’t becoming more and more blob-like over the days. I used to get up and run in the mornings before work, but then it started being dark at 6am and the eyes just don’t open when it’s still dark outside. I used to fit into a size six wedding dress as recently as five months and seventeen days ago, but now I am popping out of my size eight work pants. I have redeveloped a severe case of prepubescent acne that will not go away no matter how much I complain about it. I’ve had a splinter for a week but don’t know how to get it out of me except to will it away. This, sadly, has not yet worked.
My usual tactics of drowning in television reruns and ice cream and Sambuca are not working either. I’m just wasting away here in Margaritaville.
There’s really nothing I can say for myself. I know what I need to do, I just don’t want to do it. I’m blaming Billy. That is not helping our relationship.
This post has been lovingly sponsored by the words, “angst” and “self-pity.”