False Alarm, Except Alarm Implies "Bad" and This Would Have Been Good. Ish. Right?

Dude, you do not even want to KNOW what I did yesterday.

Sometimes I'm amazed by the level of self-persuasion I'm capable of inflicting when, against all odds, with the chances stacked against me, like, 99.99999%, I still manage to convince myself that maybe...just MAYBE...I might be pregnant.

Ladies, please tell me you know what I'm talking about here! Please tell me I'm not the only one who has purchased an EPT for no other reason (realistically speaking) than because (apparently) I like sticking things into my urine stream for exactly five seconds and then wondering where to set the fucker so it doesn't drip pee all over the floor. (According to the instructions, it must be 5 seconds. NO MORE!! NO LESS!! OR BABY JESUS WILL DIE!)

Mostly this whole "maybe I'm pregnant" thing was so ridiculous because I've been on the pill forever. Not only have I been on the pill, I've also been "suppressing" so I haven't even ovulated (YES. I SAID IT. Get over yourselves men, like "ejaculation" is such a great word) in probably close to a year.

But still. This Chantix shit makes me so incredibly nauseous and gives me a sharp headache every fucking time I take it (once in the morning, once at night). I was expecting the Look Out! She's Got A Gun! kind of side effects, but I didn't read the fine print closely enough to realize I'd be more likely to have to Take A Deep Breath So You Don't Blow! side effect.

And when else do people get nauseous? WHEN THEY'RE PREGNANT. So right there I've got a totally (un)reasonable piece of evidence to prove that maybe I spontaneously conceived via the magical fallopian express, or something.

Plus! Plus! Yesterday, I got...THE HUNGER. I'm not even kidding you, it was back with a vengeance. It was such a deja vu moment that I forgot one of the side effects of not smoking is shoving food into your face hole during every waking moment.

Hello Weight Watchers. Please watch me closely.

I can't even explain what came over me but once I recognized The Hunger feeling in my tummy, there was an explosion of images in my mind. Images of pink, fatty leg bits and big, gummy mouth bits and drooly smiles and ohgodhelpmebabysmellnomnom!

I started rehearsing how I'd tell Gray when he got home from work. How could I make it as awesome as the first time? I didn't even have a "My Daddy Rocks" bib this time, ya'll! Would I skip class to tell him? Veronica & Co. were already headed into the cities for the holiday and would be at the house by the time Gray got home from work. I should tell him before! Definitely before!

I practiced telling my professor why I had to miss class (she was understanding and congratulatory, if you were wondering). I counted the months from my approximation of when I may have conceived and realized we'd be having a summer baby. August, actually. I thought what a perfect month that was to have a new baby.

And that's when I decided I needed to take a pregnancy test. Just to be sure.

So once I'd decided it was kind of, sort of, not really but maybe possible that I could be pregnant, then I started finding other "evidence" to support my theory. Like that we had sex once. And that I missed a couple of days of the pill and didn't start my period.

And BECAUSE I SAID SO.

It was the oddest experience, buying a pregnancy test this time. Last go-round, probably because of all the sex I was having, I felt like the cashier was judging my whoredome and sizing up whether or not I was old enough to be a good mother. This time? It was almost like she rolled her eyes and though, "Girl, puleeeeeze. You ain't pregnant! You be on the pill. Why you be wasting this money? Psh!" Oddly, she was an elderly white woman.

And you know what? She was totally right. I even fucking donated a dollar to juvenile diabetes at the counter thinking maybe that would be a sign of my pregnant-ness. How many people who deprive the kids of a dollar and then go home and piss on a stick and then really regret it? DOZENS, at least.

But no. I wasted that damn dollar on those damn kids, and they're not even mine!! On the up-side, I can get wasted tomorrow without all those pesky developmental side effects.

Coulda Been Worse. Coulda Involved Donkeys.

My friend and I were swapping "awkward sex encounters" the other day. Mind you, I've got almost zero sex encounters in total, unless you count the 8 years with the ex, but to call those "encounters" might even be pushing it a bit.

Anyway, right around the time my divorce was getting under way but before Gray and I were technically a couple, I flew to California with my sister and her newborn to visit family. I had met a guy through work who offered to get us free tickets to Disneyland and California Adventure, so of course we took him up on it. Trouble was, he wanted to go with us. And not only go with us, but meet us in Anaheim the night before and stay in a hotel near the park.

My sister, crazy new breastfeeding mother that she was, opted out, but I agreed because he and I had been on a couple dates and got along pretty well. And I really wanted to go to Disneyland.

Here's where it starts to get awkward. The plan was for me to go stay the night with this guy AT A HOTEL, and then my DAD would bring my sister to meet us in the morning.

I know. But it made perfect sense at the time.

Having never been with anyone other than the ex, I was bound and determined to have a good time. Except it turned out that this guy was a Flipper Face. And by "Flipper Face", I mean that I may as well have been making out with a dolphin. It was AWFUL.

He was a very nice guy, and generous, don't get me wrong. But that just meant that I was a prostitute, not that I was into him. Right?

Ok, so the next morning, my poor horrified father (what must he have been thinking?!) dropped off my sister at the hotel and left to go home and babysit his new grand daughter.

The three of us walked uncomfortably around the theme park until around lunch time (my sister is the type to GIVE ME SHIT, so you can imagine what I heard that day despite how very hard I was trying to forget the events of the previous evening). We decided to hit up one last ride - Pirates of the Caribbean - before heading over to California Adventure for lunch where the only booze on the property was sold.

Did I mention he was a little...husky? When he went to sit in the rear of the little Pirate gondola, it literally went under water and sloshed about 40 gallons of god knows what up into the boat. He was soaked from the waist down, but my sister and I managed to ride the entire thing without putting our asses in the trough behind us, probably thanks to a lifetime of public toilet hovering.

Now we were uncomfortable, HE was uncomfortable, and it didn't take long before he began to complain that his wet denim shorts were chaffing his thighs. Great. Even better.

So we had a really expensive, marginally edible meal over at CA. AD. and a few of their million dollar keg beers before he announced that he wasn't feeling well and disappeared into one of the park's bathrooms for, like, 30 minutes or so. Time enough for my sister to go shopping and come back. THAT'S HOW LONG HE WAS IN THERE.

Then we had to buy sunscreen for him to slather on his thighs.

You know...from all the chaffing.

Then he bought us an expensive dinner, took us home, and drove to San Diego (not a short drive, if you're wondering). I nearly DIED when I realized I'd left one of my shoes in his trunk. This meant further contact was unavoidable. I could live without the shoe, but I knew he would use it as an excuse to see me next time he flew into MN.

Which he did. And then we had the horrible conversation about "what went wrong".

The End.

Wow, was that as awful for you as it was for me? Ok, so back to my original point - my friend was telling me about HER most awkward sexual experience, and it was so awesome that I asked if I could share it with you people. And she agreed, because she was drunk. Or something.

So there was this guy she knew in high school who always had a huge crush on her but never made a move because she was dating his best friend. (Ah, high school politics). They happened to run into each other years later as adults and I can't remember if she said they went on a date, but he still had a crush on her and she wasn't sure if she liked him.

He convinced her to come watch movies at his house which, of course, translates to "let's make out and maybe I'll be able to slip you a little...well, we'll just see how it goes with the making out", but it didn't take long for her to realize that he was a Hoover Face.

Her entire mouth/lip/chin area was in his mouth AT ALL TIMES. She said it was so bad that when he turned to take a drink of his beer, she pretended to fall asleep. In less than 5 seconds. And she continued to pretend to be asleep for, like, over an hour.

But he wasn't giving up.

So eventually, somehow, she decides to just leave but he really wants to get freaky, so she jokingly tells him that she'll have sex with him if he puts on her bra and panties. Mind you, she thought it would be a deal breaker for him and he'd send her on her merry way.

Except he does it. HE FUCKING DOES IT. And he's standing there in her underwear and she politely asks for it all back and she gets dressed and she leaves.

Now...I might be wrong, but he was either into lingerie or he was fucking desperate to get laid.

Anyhow, I would LOVE to hear your awkward sex stories if you got 'em. Who are you kidding, I KNOW you freaks have 'em! Lay 'em on me! Help wash the taste of Flipper out of my mouth!!

Still Trying to Conjure Up Edward Norton

Thing that have happened in my dreams since I began taking Chantix:

• flown on an eagle's back. secretly. and with much secretness.
• attended a wedding at which cake was eaten with candle snuffers instead of forks
• found my teenage car chopped in half and utterly undriveable
• given a guy a blow job in a helicopter which was flown by my friend's mother
• stolen an RV with a friend's cat locked inside of it
• shown up to class with all of my books but no knowledge of what classes I was supposed to attend
• worked as a wedding planner for a crazy bridezilla
• forged my identity in order to steal two cats (one was named Turkey) from the animal shelter where they'd been rescued after I tried stealing one of them in the RV in a different dream
• did I mention flying on an eagle's back?

I wake up so exhausted from these dreams (which continue where they left off after I get up to pee, etc) that I spend a couple hours each night laying awake, knowing that if I just lay there and rest, I'll wake up less tired than if I went back to my dream where I'm worried about pulling the damn eagle feathers too hard and subsequently being eaten or dropped hundreds of feet from the air and having to find another ride to school. FOREVER.

The only other side effect (aside from not wanting to smoke which, after all, is kind of the whole point of taking this crazy shit), is that I'm violently nauseous for about 15 minutes each time I take a dose. Kind of reminds me of how I feel when I finish a Chipotle burrito, but without the Niagra Falls situation in the middle of the night.

I'd probably get more rest on the toilet, now that I think about it.

Help 4 Anissa

Please feel free to steal this for your sidebar, blog, etc.

Because The Video Isn't Embarrassing Enough

You know what I hate?

I hate it when you turn on the water to heat up before your shower and when stick your hand in the hot water, you feel this sharp pain in your thumb and you yank your hand back and flap it in the air for a few moments (nature's pain killer) as you try to remember how on earth you managed to injure the tip of your thumb, but when you look down at your hand you notice that all of your nails have been chewed to the quick and you think, "Did I do that?" and then you realize that Yes. You did that.

And then you climb in the shower and, once again forgetting your injuries, stick both hands into the hot water and yelp a little.

I quit biting my nails YEARS ago when I was a kid and I used to bite them and SWALLOW THEM and I got sick one night and threw up a stomach full of nail clippings all over the bathroom floor. I shit you not.

Since then, I've been an occasional Stress Biter (and also a Drunken Antsy Biter) but mostly I like to think I keep the germ-infested ringworm breeding grounds staunchly OUT of my mouth at all times.

Apparently I bit the holy living christ out of my finger nails on Sunday as I was editing my mortifying (but kinda funny if you're a literature nerd. or a pervert.) video for British Lit, which took a total of about 8 hours to make (oddly, the filming took about 15 minutes and the damn "works cited" sheet took the other 7 hours and 45 minutes), and which I was rather nervous about broadcasting in a room full of my peers.

So because I was horrified to show this to 20 (probably dozing) students in my class, OF COURSE I'm now putting it on the internet. That's the next logical step, right?

Anyway, so I'm in the shower trying to remember when I bit my nails and then the thought occurs to me that I must have put the damn shredded half-moons of protein somewhere, but I can't for the life of me remember throwing them away.

And then I remember. I put them in my pocket. IN MY POCKET.

I was all cozy on the couch and I had my ear buds nestled in so I could hear my video and Landers was snuggled up on my lap and I didn't want to get up to dispose of my disgusting, shameful hoof shavings, but I wasn't about to just throw them on the floor all willy nilly because, WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL DO YOU THINK I AM, and so I put them in my pocket.

The pocket of my pajama pants.

The pajama pants that are now folded up and patiently waiting in the bottom drawer for the next time I decide to sleep with pants on.

I'm wondering if this is as bad or worse than flicking boogers in the night to avoid getting up for a tissue? Cause I've, you know, heard that some people do that. Ahem.

Grand Marnier: Breakfasts of Freaks

Please. Don't even ask. There are no words.

Counting Down

So, I took my first dose of Chantix this morning. The package says it must be taken on a full stomach, in the morning, with a full glass of water. So that means I ate a baked potato at 7:00 a.m. That was fucking weird.

Otherwise, I haven't noticed any side effects. Then again, it's only been 4 hours. There are DAYS left for me to be crazy. Here, read the side effects. They look fun:

Some people have had changes in behavior, hostility, agitation, depressed mood, suicidal thoughts or actions while using CHANTIX to help them quit smoking. Some people had these symptoms when they began taking CHANTIX, and others developed them after several weeks of treatment or after stopping CHANTIX. If you, your family, or caregiver notice agitation, hostility, depression, or changes in behavior, thinking, or mood that are not typical for you, or you develop suicidal thoughts or actions, anxiety, panic, aggression, anger, mania, abnormal sensations, hallucinations, paranoia, or confusion, stop taking CHANTIX and call your doctor right away. Also tell your doctor about any history of depression or other mental health problems before taking CHANTIX, as these symptoms may worsen while taking CHANTIX.

Kind of sounds like I'm ::this:: close from loading up on uranium and taking out a Quaker school full of babies and kittens, huh?

Don't worry about me, though. I have some friends on a "observe and report" mission. I sent them this list of side effects, and told them that if I show up to work barefoot and wielding a baseball bat, BE AFRAID. But if I show up with a flask and no makeup on my face, it's business as usual.

We've also devised an early warning system for their own, personal safety. Each morning, I email them my "Mood Forecast" with either a picture of a happy face or a picture of a frowny face. This is intended to let them know if I'm likely to skin them alive BEFORE they come say good morning.

I'm pretty sure we've covered all the bases, except for the whole "eating inappropriate foods for breakfast like potatoes and Twix bars" thing, which I intend to remedy immediately with beef jerky and Grey Goose.

So really, what could go wrong?

By the way, if you don't hear from me for more than a couple of days, you should probably send over the bomb squad. You know, just in case.

This Is The Sound Of My Brain Exploding And Landing On That Guy Who's Just Minding His Own Damn Business. Wrong Place, Buddy. Can I Borrow That Book?

Some of my classmates and I were discussing how fucking dorky we are because, unlike MOST students, we're looking forward to the end of our semester in just a few weeks not so we can take a month off and relax, but for the opportunity to read even more than we already do. So we can read books for, like, fun. And stuff.

I know, it's crazy.

I've got a giant stack of books in the basement calling my name, but I just haven't been able to get to them. Some of them are fluffy crap, some of them are classics I've never read, there are at least 4 different Joyce Carol Oates novels, and (of course) there are the King novels I haven't re-read in over a year.

I keep requesting books from the library (like In The Woods and The Magician's Elephant) that have to be transported from one location to another and scanned along the way and marked with my name and put on a special shelf...so that I can cancel my request when I realize I do not have the time to read them until December. What with all the Say Yes to the Dress and 48 Hours Special Investigation episodes. What the hell is wrong with me? PUT DOWN THE PORNOGRAPHY AND READ A DAMN BOOK.

Ahem.

Anyway, so I started reading Lady Chatterley's Lover and I had to put it down. The only book I've sort of stuck with is the 100 Ghastly Ghost Stories that I read aloud to Gray after dinner by the firelight or out by the bonfire after dark. Because I don't torture him enough with requests to please "look for bugs in the sheets" and "rub my back, boy!" I have to forcibly molest his eardrums at night. It is important to our relationship that I do what I want 100% of the time.

So I'm not sure exactly what I was going to tell you now, I'm all distracted wondering if that one chick ended up buying that one dress that was $4,150 over her budget because I missed the end of the episode because the other show about the guy who murdered his wife and framed the pet rabbit was starting and my DVR was already taping The Little Couple.

Oh, that's right - so Christmas break. I've opted to take 6 days of PTO which mean that starting Christmas Eve, I will be on "vacation" from both school and work until January 4th.

In case you suck at math like me, I used my calculator and discovered that is ELEVEN ENTIRE DAYS of not working or schooling. In a row. To be used for reading and opting not to shower and possibly catching up on my obese Google reader.

And if that isn't a Merry fucking Christmas, kids....well then I don't know what is.

And until then, all I have to do is:

• create, edit and present a 15 minute video about the importance of the madrigal to the validation of the English vernacular for use in music and literature
• finish reading King Lear, The Tempest, and a bunch of stuff by Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson, and John Gay
• finish a research paper comparing Shakespeare's treatment of female chastity to Chaucer's treatment of female sexuality through the Wife of Bath, and (OF COURSE) the implications of all that shit
• write a paper on one of 14 topics, all of which sound as daunting as this example: "The Infernal Ontologies of Marlowe & Milton - hellish states of beingness - compare the speeches of Mephistopheles and Satan in order to determine whether their respective authors are up to the same project and why does it matter?"
• take a final on Shakespeare's histories and tragedies
• polish off that bottle of Tanqueray
• quit smoking
• try not to cry a whole bunch

So what I'm saying is...what the fuck does "ontologies" mean?

Happy Birthday, Madeline

(this article was prepared by Middle Aged Woman from Unmitigated in memory of Madeline Alice Spohr...)

I don't think there are too many people reading this who didn't have their heart broken on April 7th of this year. That's the day we learned that Madeline Alice Spohr, whom we all knew as Maddie from The Spohrs Are Multiplying, was suddenly taken fromher parents, Heather and Mike, when a respiratory infection coupled with a collapsed lung was more than her 17-month-old body could fight.

Thousands of people across the country mourned with Heather and Mike, and thousands came to their support by donating to the March of Dimes in Maddie's memory. Since then, the Spohrs, along with family and friends, have created Friends of Maddie, a fund dedicated to supporting families of critically ill or prematurely-born infants during their stay in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) with supplies, help finding temporary lodging (because the NICU isn't always within commuting distance of home), and by creating a network of support.

Friends of Maddie uses your donation to put together SupportPacks for families who find themselves overwhelmed with the care of an at-risknewborn. The packs include items such as reusable water bottles, snack bars,tissues, mints, and most importantly, a tri-fold binder with a note pad and accordion file to keep track of paperwork."We're hopeful it will make it at a little easier for parents to keep track of everything," Heather says. "You get SO many papers, business cards, etc., every day, and it's hard to keep track of everything."

She should know, she lived the experience. Maddie's sixty-eight-day stay in the NICU is chronicled on Heather's blog and her husband Mike's blog as well. Readers across the country followed every setback and every victory.

What message would she like to pass on to parents in the same situation? "Patience. Take things a day at a time and live in the moment. Don't look down the road or things will get REALLY scary and overwhelming," shared Heather.

The reaction to the packs has been terrific, according to Heather, "We've been getting a FANTASTIC response from everyone! We weren't expecting such a big response so we are really behind in getting back to everyone, but it's a good problem to have!"

By now, you are all wondering how you can help, right? I knew it. You people rock. Your options:

* Donate! I know, the economy is bad right now, but every little bit helps. Or...
* Let your local NICU know about Friends of Maddie, or...
* Do you work for a company that might bring a valuable service to NICU parents? Contact FoM! Or...
* Just spread the word! Write a blog post! Send out a tweet! Y'all know how this works!

Mike and Heather's loss is unimaginable. In spite of their grief, they have found a way to pay forward all the love poured out from thousands of hearts across the internet.

Tell your friends about Friends of Maddie.

And Now I'm Drooling

The last time I saw Dr. Crazy Socks, all we talked about was sex. It was awkward. It's a shame that he wasn't wearing penis socks. And now I know what to get him for Christmas.

I'm trying to decide if I want to try Chantix to quit smoking this time. Of the people who have used it, half said it worked and the other half said it made them so nuts that they had to quit taking the meds. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't notice if I got more nuts. Nutsier. Nastier. Wait, are we talking about sex again?

I have a love affair with Subway. I'm like Pavlov's dog for their BLT. I have to plan my drive so I avoid passing the store because if I even think about extra jalapenos and a little bit of mayo...I totally fugue out and the next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of my car with lettuce crumbs and salt and vinegar chips in my shirt. It's not safe, but damn it's good.

I am so excited for the fall semester to end because that means I'll get to read a book FOR PLEASURE. Saying those words aloud is the equivalent of parents saying they get to sleep in late when they're not even hung over AND their kids aren't eating batteries in the other room.

Five Head called on Saturday and spent 30 minutes explaining the intricate differences between series one, two and three of Bakugon. I'm still in a coma from that conversation. Ten-year-old boys are boring.

I got an email from my ex informing me that he went out to dinner with his parents on Friday and who should turn out to be his waitress? MY SISTER. Wow, I bet she was excited about that shit. They caught up and everything was hunky dory, apparently, but I cannot wait to dish with my sis about that little incident.

Also, the ex informed me that he has "found God" which is SO AWESOME because I didn't even realize that god was missing, and since I'm so in the god loop, it probably means most people didn't realize god was missing, and the Pope may have known something was up but he was too busy rolling in piles of gold coins with the naked alter boy to make an announcement to all the Catholics that they should start looking for god, and thus my ex averted a world-wide panic.

Nice work, ex-husband. Nice work. Just wish you would have been able to find your own damn socks when we were married.

Midget? No. Quitter? Oh Yeah.

I know I'm totally ruining the "illusion" for many of you, but it's time I put myself out there. I'm a person just like you, at least until the lights go out, and we're all in this together.

I don't really know what that means, so here - watch this:

The Trouble With Quitting...

Did I mention that I quit smoking again?

Any by "again", I mean, "AGAIN???" and now the sight of the word "again" has lost all meaning to my brain. Wait, maybe I should specify exactly what I quit smoking here.

I quit smoking cigarettes again-again. Again. Nope, still means nothing.

Anyhow, I finally did it: I got hungover enough that the thought of smoking a cigarette made me gag for two days. (If you need to quit, too, here's the trick: smoke 4 times more than normal in 1/4 of the time and overindulge in adult beverages and lay on the couch moaning for two days )((works like a motherfucking charm, let me tell you)).

When you quit smoking, the first 2 or 3 days of abstinence are the hardest and it feels like someone has ripped a gaping hole in the back of your mind and all you can think about is stuffing that hole full of carcinogens and tobacco and sweet, smokey tendrils of vapor love. But if you're already so hungover that the though of thinking about thoughts means possibly dying and YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO DIE,...well, then smoking isn't so high up on the list of priorities, you know?

Nevertheless, your lungs feel lonely and too-pink and there are all these random moments during the day when you're not sure what exactly you should be doing with yourself. Like, "Well, just finished up dinner and now I'll just...um...what DO non-smokers do after a meal? The circle is incomplete!"

Not smoking during those designated Cigarette Times feels remarkably similar to when you purposefully walk into the kitchen but then can't remember why you walked into the kitchen, so you just wander around aimlessly from drawer to drawer hoping it will come back to you, and eventually it does, but not until you're in the middle of taking a dump.

Everyone around you is smoking, and they all look pretty damn pleased with themselves. That guy with the cigarette in the car next to you at the stoplight? HE IS TORTURING YOU AND HE KNOWS IT. That movie you've seen 4,000 times but never really noticed before how much the actress smokes until now? THAT BITCH IS TRYING TO DESTROY YOUR LIFE. All those people at all those holiday parties who brave the icy winds and stand outside in a huddle? THEY ARE HAVING MORE FUN THAN YOU.

Tuesday night at 7:40 p.m. when we took a ten minute break from my British Lit class, the flashing neon light behind my eyes kicked on and all I could see was "CIGARETTE TIME! CIGARETTE TIME! Hurry up, it's CIGARETTE TIME!" and all my class friends filed out the door and I stood staring after them, a thin stream of drool connecting my chin to my shoes, until someone asked if I was coming and I muttered, "No, I'm trying to quit."

That, of course, elicited a chorus of "good for yous" from the smokers, but I know from experience that when they say "good for you", they really mean "better you than me, sucker."

And I spent the rest of the break walking in a circle from the water fountain to the door, not sure if I should be seated and pretend to study or if I should try to pee again or if I should get a snack or if I should just FUCKING CAVE AND BEG FOR A CIGARETTE.

Hell, when you're really desperate, a used butt from the ashtray will work just fine.

So I guess this post is my convoluted way of saying, "HOLD ME!" and "THOSE CHUNKS I COUGHED UP WERE ISHY!" and "::incoherent sobs and snortles which indicate my desperate need to suck on something deadly::!"

(Oddly enough, this is the first time I've quit while medicated and I guess I'm not exactly the most impartial judge ever, but I don't think I've been cranky or crabby or moody or violent this time.)((Can't recommend medication enough, ya'll.))

My Apologies For the Retinal Scarring

Meet: Jane Fonda and her NASCAR-lovin' boy toy, Jed.

Blurry? Check! Inappropriate posture? Check! Way too much lemon vodka? CHECK! Nothing says Happy Halloween like Sing Star, venison and ass-smack circles.

Also, my bra is stuffed with socks and the bottom of my leotard is a bathing suit that I butchered for the occasion. And my hair is one gallon of Aqua Net. Still isn't moving.

I woke up today. VOLUNTARILY. This is something I wasn't sure would ever happen again, not after Saturday night. As much as I love kids, it was probably best I don't have any right now. I would have neglected the shit out of them on Sunday. I didn't even clean my ears with a Q-tip, that's how bad it was.

But this morning, I'm off to assist with the local chapter of Kids Vote! (the exclamation point is literally right there in the name) and I have to be at the Methodist church to set up by 6:45. I know that sounds early, but I'm normally at work by 7:00, so it's no stretch for me. I usually roll out of bed between 5:00 and 5:45 - RELUCTANTLY - to get ready for work.

Today, I woke up at 4:30. A.M.! I realize I can thank the disappearance of Daylight Savings Time (also, remind me to thank you for the darkness to and from work every morning and night for the next six months, motherfucker) but I feel like a warrior princess or something. I literally do not get out of bed voluntarily, EVER.

I either need to buy a lotto ticket or double check my medication.