I like to pretend I don't cry over much, but the truth is - I cry a lot. Hallmark cards. Commercials. Talking to patients. Talking to my mother. I wonder how many calories you can burn crying? Probably as many as I am burning writing this blog... and given that my non-dominant typing hand is crammed into a bag of Bugles, that would be negative 20-something.

I don't actually buy Bugles. They're just a fun word to say. Go ahead and try it. Bugles.

My therapist tells me that I need to worry more about myself and less about what others think. I usually follow this with "I know. I'm sorry. Don't hate me". I don't actually say this, but it would be funny if I did. Usually the stuff we pay our therapists to say to us is stuff we already know about ourselves. The reasons we have low self-esteem. The story behind using food for comfort. The addictive qualities of threesomes with random hot men (ha! I only wish I talked to my therapist about that last thing. It's more likely to be addictive qualities of watching my hot neighbor water the grass).

True story (if I can diverge for a minute, and surely I can seeing as you've got nothing better to do AND you're here, reading this. In order. You get my point) - there is this HOT guy at the end of my street who is always shirtless and watering his grass. It wouldn't be quite so bad except he's all muscley and tan.. and shirtless. Even in the winter. He's out there shirtless washing away the snow.

OK, he's not. Not only would that be bad for the consequential ice cascade down the road, I don't typically dig a man with frostbitten nipples. Even if they are attached to perfectly sculpted pecs. Actually, come to think of it - hot chest man is wasting a ton of water showing off his arms. Maybe he builds houses for habitat for humanity when he's not helping his garden grown. Yeah, yeah - that's what he does. AND he rescues puppies. AND he gives foot massages. Ahem, moving on....

I'm sorry I haven't blogged in awhile - I've been in a bit of a funk lately. I've been hating myself for a thousand different reasons and mostly I've been hiding behind this phony facade of cheeriness whilst crumbling to a pitiful mess on the inside. I haven't always made the smartest decisions in the last 30-some years, but trying to figure out how to get past all that and move forward is a lesson in extreme patience. Some days it takes every ounce of energy I have just to get out of bed in the morning. And then, of course, I can't fall asleep at night. it's an endless cycle. I have found out that the most frustrating place to be in life is stuck in hiatus and that's how I often feel. Stuck. With very little wiggle room. And what seems to be nothing within reaching distance to grab a hold of and pull. Ya know? Shitty metaphor, but whatever. It's late and I'm writing this blog while watching old Murder She Wrote episodes on Netflix. That old lady sure was good at figuring out who the murderer was. Maybe she could work for the Baltimore City Police Dept since they don't know what the hell they are doing...

I sure can get off subject.

I'm a free lady 4th of July (Thank you, Uncle Mark!) and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm open to any and all suggestions that aren't outrageously expensive and don't involve me getting peanut butter into any bodily crevices. This causes rash - and don't ask me how I know this. I just do.

Until then, stay cool and be sure to drink your Ovaltine.