I couldn't muster the interest/energy/enthusiasm for writing a complete blog at any point in the past week, so I'm amalgamating multiple drafts:
I usually refrain from "language" on this blog due to the heavy mom-content in my readership. But this is surely an exception.
Phone call: there is news.
Just ugly-sobbed on the phone with my Dad. Manic-daughter stuff is usually Mom's territory but she was in the hot tub.
I shouldn't listen to sad music when I'm bummed. It's Monday. It's raining. The current state of things in the outer world are mimicking my inner world. Prophetic fallacy.
I should resume my short-lived stint as a (hobby) poet. Teenage angst flashbacks.
OK, taking things into perspective: I have my health. No one is dying. Love is blooming (still). I adore my job. I'm being social. Life is beautiful.
But still. I have news. The worst part is that the way I deal with crappy things is to blab about them incessantly. Oversharing is super-cathartic. And I CAN'T. Arrrgh. I will be able to share very, very soon, but for now: zippity-do-dah.
Feeling better today. Flights booked for my work/personal trip in January (and Alex is joining me for part of it!) so I have something fun to anticipate. Yay!
You know I'm a glass-half-full kind of girl and I always bounce back. Turning anger and frustration into positive productivity right now. OK, you want to kill me. Dawn thinks I'm preggers. Or moving. And my secrecy (my RARE secrecy) is killing her. These are not my guts to spill, though. They are the guts of another, and I have vowed to carefully guard them until the appropriate time. Hurry up!!!
Look: Tuesday = much better than Monday. Plus it's sunny. And NOT Monday. Already things are looking up-up-up!
I think I have a cold from biking for half an hour in the pouring rain. I know that this is not actually possible: you get sick from germs, not inclement weather. But again, maybe I'm just having a psychic connection to the weather.
Heard that the stupid secret is spreading around more than it should be. But it won't be traced back to me. Nope. Unless my Dad takes a notion and decides to open a Twitter account and take on the gossip-mill as a hobby. Nah, I get my big mouth from my Mom.
Still kind of hoping this has been a week-long dream.
Realized that my mood/lethargy can be mostly blamed on PMS. Although I'm pretty gutted about the incident-that-will-not-be-named, I think girl-problems are really the culprit for my sourness. Meaning: next week should look up! And maybe next week I can talk this thing to death, too. Waiting for the green flag.
Mom: You'll be fine.
Me: I always am
Mom: You always are.
This funk I'm in doesn't fit. It feels sticky. And wrong. Off to sweat out bad vibes in hot yoga. Promise: more divulging and less pouting next time!