I finished reading ‘Wicked’. I don’t understand it. And I don’t think I like it. There.
I played a little Blokus. Whipped everyone’s a****. After a while, I got bored. So I tossed and turned and spent the whole afternoon browsing YouTube looking for videos of Hugh Laurie and Mr Children.
For the first time in weeks, my head is throbbing with what is going to become a full blown migraine. No sign of cough, cold or flu so I honestly think I got THAT pink problem under control.
I am sick sick sick sick sick of my boy troubles, imaginary or otherwise. I am sick of the stalkers, the predators, the swingers, the alternatives who think they can swing to the other side at the snap of the fingers, the bleeders (definition: those who believe love has to bleed and hurt to be real), the starry-eyed admirers who are so damn young I could be their mothers, the party animals, the faux art lovers who are more interested in gawking at my breasts than at actual art and the misguided optimists who think I am a work in progress that they can modify for the better (definition: make obedient).
So for the next couple of weeks I am putting my E90 and myself on an embargo. There. Done.
*Slams the door, goes to Starbucks for the largest freakin’ frappucino that they can make. And extra whipped cream on top. With what I’ve been through, I deserve the calories.*