Hot Dips (littlewashu) wrote,
Hot Dips
littlewashu

Here are some of my many complexes.

I feel woozy and I want to go home. Just eighteen more minutes.

I want to write an entry about my gas guy, Eddie. He's the greatest gasoline dispenser that has ever lived.

I also wanted to write about the weird, perverted commercial I heard on my AM news station the other day, but I can't remember exactly how it went, so I'm hoping to hear it again so that I can pay more attention. I wouldn't want to dispense false information.

After reading Tami's entry today, and then Rhino's response to my comment, I want to write about what I like about my fucking cat. That sounds REALLY REALLY LAME AND CHEESY, thank you, I am aware, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'll try to make it "cool". Because I wouldn't want you guys to think I'm not "cool".

I'm supposed to be finding prices for a decorative fence, but I'm putting it off until tomorrow, because it requires talking on the phone. I absolutely hate talking on the phone to people for business reasons. Absolutely. Like most girls, I like talking on the phone with my friends, but anything else, forget about it. It's some sort of complex. Like, the window of my car? It's off the track and won't go down more than a few inches. It's been that way since at least before my birthday. Which is in February. Because in order to do something about it, I have to make a phone call. All hail my ridiculous complex.

And also, man. Procrastination. I am so adept at procrastination, that I do UNPLEASANT things to avoid other things. Like, in the mornings, I put my tea water on to boil at 7:30. If I'm far enough along in my Getting Ready Procedure, I'll wash some dishes while it heats up. Sometimes, even if I'm not far enough along. My hair isn't fixed, my makeup isn't on -- maybe I'm not even dressed yet -- but I'll stand there at the sink, doing dishes. Because I can't go to work until I'm done getting ready. So I avoid getting ready. And then end up being late, and I don't like being late. I'm late all the time to everything everytime always, and I fucking hate it and I get a little knot in my stomach every time. Being late is a flaw, and it inconveniences other people, and it's not endearing, no matter which way you look at it.

And I should start exercising. Last year I lost about 10 pounds by sticking to my patented Keritha A. Noodles Don't Eat So Fucking Much Diet. But then I quit my job, which meant my schedule was not regular, and I started eating lunches again, and they all came back, with friends, and I can't figure out how not to eat lunch again. Part of the problem is that I go home for lunch, so food is too accessible. But I'm still not a fucking piggie, I don't think -- so what I need to do is start exercising. Or . . . something. I despise running, so that's out. I'd in theory like to go a gym, but I don't want to learn. I don't want to be in there not knowing what I'm doing, and making people wait, and having people look at me not know what I'm doing.

These are my irrational complexes! And there are more!

I feel like I have to tell people things in order to make them real. I tell people stories of every single thing that happens to me each day. The scary part is I've gotten better!! I swear it! I've never kept a real journal, because . . . well, no one would read it but me. But I keep this one up pretty good. Because I have an audience.

Now I'm hungry a little. And it's time to home! Hooray! I've been in pretty good spirits today, for no good reason. Maybe because of last night; I had people in my house, which, while not clean by most standards, was pretty damn clean for MY standards. I cooked and it was good, I had dinner on the table almost when I said I would, I got good and drunk and danced around, people were hanging out and having a good time at MY house. I love hosting.

And now -- home, and a drink on the balcony with Dune Messiah. The book, not the . . . er, messiah. And then maybe some SSX Tricky, and then hopefully some cleaning. We'll try to hold off the smoke off as long as possible, maybe not at all. Or just a quck hit or two before bed.

But I'm not promising anything.

P.S. If this post sounds melancholy, it's not! I'm in a great mood! I'm just hungry.
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