My boss gets back from his trip today; why is it that I seem to have more work when he’s gone than I do while he’s here?

In true bipolar fashion, my hair doesn’t seem as horrible today. Maybe the inch I let it grow out over the past week was all it needed not to look weird.

Undecided about which dress to wear to office party Friday night. The blue one means a strapless bra; the white one means racer-back. Both mean no food until Saturday.

Not getting enough sleep. Might get a better shot at rest if I didn’t have dreams I was in Trafalgar Square, waiting for my mother, and hoping she packed the batteries (I don’t know).

Not burning enough calories. Made this week’s weight goal, though; could do more if it weren’t 30 degrees outside. What’s the point of losing weight in the dead of freezing winter? It’s the polar opposite of wearing wool in a heat wave.

Have to pick up extra shifts at Starbucks if I am ever to afford a vacation, which will be difficult, as all I can do is work my one day off. Crap.

Wondering if my little sister turned all the lights off before she left the house this morning. Hoping she didn’t use the stove. Making a note to call her later and ask where she needs to get picked up.

Getting in the right mindset to go running later. Coffee is heavily involved.

This is what I’m thinking about today. I am in sort of a sad mood, and I really couldn’t say why—unless it was too much watching of Horatio Hornblower (which you should see, if only for the ass factor). I’m sad that I don’t have a boat to sail to England, whether it means fighting the French or not (En garde, subway ticket vendor man!). I’m sad that I’m not having any adventures at the moment. Life after school is so very incredibly hard. I feel the same way I did when I worked at my office job before I went away to school; I hated the drudgery, the way every day was the same, on the same schedule—I thought if I had to do that for the rest of my life, I would die. I would be an insignificant worker bee. I was so excited about college, and all the things I would do… and now I’m on the other end. I’ve done them all. It feels so anticlimactic. I’m back to the office job, this time to pay the school bills. When will I get to have that much fun again? I don’t think going to grad school will be the same experience, but it’ll be something. It’ll be a step forward, instead of all this sitting down I’ve been doing. Ugh. I hate when I get melancholy. And now you do, too. Sorry.

“But Beedoo—aren’t you going to Europe? That’ll be fun.”

Ah, about that…


Yeah. It seems the trip, she has a’fallen through. It is crazy expensive to fly in the summer months; as I have only ever flown in the off-season, I had no idea. So, it has been decided that we (me, my mother, etc.) will take the small domestic trips this year [Hi Jen. Guess what?] and hopefully accrue enough SkyMiles that the Europe flight will be free. It’s a good way to knock about $1000 off the trip, with the added bonus that I have another year to pay down my credit cards and student loans. I’ll be in a much better financial position to go next year—and now we all know that it IS coming, and we can prepare for it early. I’ve decided it’ll be more fun if I have a boy to go with, so I have a year to make that happen. Where can I get one of those? Whole Foods? I need some chicken salad anyway, so here’s hoping.

Today’s sadness is probably just yesterday’s postponed sadness; I should have had it yesterday, but my little sister stopped my funk cold on the drive home:

Man, I’m sad.


I don’t know. Maybe it’s because somebody’s steaming up the windshield with her stupid need to breathe.

One of my crazy quirks.



Not sad anymore. But I hate that you’re funnier than me.

And she is, so today, I am sad about that. Also, I am sad that some people don’t have my little sister to cheer them up when they’re Sad for No Reason.

In other developments, I am nursing a third-degree burn on my arm. It doesn’t hurt much anymore, but it was swaddled in gauze and Neosporin yesterday, and I think that hurried the healing process. It’s not the pain that annoys me, though—it’s the fact that I’m dumb.

I burned myself on ravioli. [Laugh at me here]

I was taking my frozen meal out of the microwave and half-dropped it, and on the recovery hot marinara flew up my sleeve and on my forearm. Luckily I was right next to the sink, so I put it under cold water and tried not to cry or yell, because I’m at work and that’s awkward. My older sister put the gauze on it (I was gonna tough it out, but you know, she made me), so for the rest of the day I have people asking me what happened to my arm, and I have to tell the story that essentially boils down to “I hurt myself on my lunch”. I’m making up something about nuns and orphans and baby chicks on fire, just so I don’t sound like some sort of butterfingered incompetent who can’t operate the simplest of kitchen appliances. Also, since the wound was on my wrist, I got wide-eyed sympathies from people who though my ravioli debacle was a cover story for a thwarted suicide attempt. To which I have to say, if I were going to slash my wrists and failed, wouldn’t I have a better story than “I got burned on a Lean Cuisine”? My story only aids their suspicions, because really, what kind of moron does it take?

This kind, apparently.


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