No matter how much I wipe my desk with moistened, grade-school-brown-paper napkins, it is still filthy. Filthy with sandwich crumbs and hand cream fingerprints.
So damn.
Getting less bitchass cold here every second day-ish. Still biting in the morning and at night and most of the day but if you find a spot outside, completely shielded from the wind, directly under the sun...it's almost not cold.
I have been an insane psychotic freak lately. Either I really am just totally mentally unstable or it's this great thing called being a woman over 30. Apparently, as we gear up to stop menstruating all together, we become more and more like caged, abused tigers in our brains. Or again, it's just me.
There isn't any external source to be causing such distress but nevertheless, I still wake up some (most) mornings wanting to stick my hand on a heated stove element, shave a mohawk in my hair and run around in dirty jogging pants, slapping everyone in the face.
So, if you asked T, he'd probably tell you that he's pretty good. Except for the fact that he lives the life of someone who is in a perpetual game of Russian roulette where the trigger of the gun is anything he says or does or any movements he involuntarily makes or any thought he has in his head that is detected by the enhanced psychic abilities of his insane lady and the bullet is her lighting-quick ability to pour all her freak into him. The freak is a special blend of rational and sensible rage about the pitiful state of humanity in general plus ancient, personal, festering, baggage issues plus some straight up mental insanity of the brain. Combined it's a laser-sharp-pointed, volatile, irresponsibly firing ray. Pity the man. Pity me while you're at it or I'll bust you one.
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