Grrr.... Time to vent.
1. You know what I despise? Going over with someone in detail why a proposal you're making is a really great idea, telling them all the reasons why it would be beneficial for them to do what you're proposing, and even laying out--kindly, mind you--why not accepting your proposal would be a bad idea for them; THEN having them do just the opposite, only for them to find out that you were right to begin with, and now they're up a shit creek with no paddle (which is a really gross concept, by the way. A "shit creek"...a small running river of poo, that you've for some reason have decided to take a leisurely row in...and now you've lost your paddle, you moron.) So now you're faced with the option of calling out the immature but highly satisfying "I told you so" or waiting patiently for them to beg for forgiveness, which you pretend not to give at first (a tad immature, yes, but better than "I told you so") but eventually graciously bestow, because hey, you want to be the better person (and reap all the benefits that you were telling said groveller of before.)
2. My dog rolled in a dead squirrel today.
3. Good intentions do not a good idea make. Good intentions mixed with habitual impatience just breeds disaster.
4. I've started my new job, which I love. I have good friends, whom I love. I have shelter, food, water, and a free workout facility, which I love. But all I can think of is turning twenty-seven--TWENTY-SEVEN--in nine days and how my entire life will be over. And I'm not being dramatic. I really think that'll be the drop off point for me. Three years until thirty...an age that stretches out like a black abyss, that marks the slowing down of my metabolism and the speeding up of my wrinkles...an age that ensures that I literally will have to work off that cookie, which I just joke about doing now. That says I have five good years to have kids, if I so desire, before they start marking "Advanced Maternal Age" on my hospital chart. I don't even WANT kids, but I still feel like time is running out. I'm afraid that at thirty, I'll make the slow decline into mom-jeans, Keds and stretch marks, and there will be no return.
Okay, perhaps I'm being a little dramatic, but I still feel a little panicky.
Ooo, I know what will help...presents!
And that's the end of my rant...for today.