It's hard to summon up the energy for a sarcastic and acerbic post when there is an imaginary raccoon inhabiting my uterus, trying to chew and claw its way out. WHY, UTERUS, WHY? Someday I am going to stuff a gigantic, months-overdue baby in there to teach it a lesson, and then let's see it try to backtalk me.
There are things this week that I MUST do but have negative desire to start doing. I'm going to blame my dangerous apathy on the raccoon -- settle down in there, Rocky! -- and my upcoming inebriated visit to Chicago. Life gets hard when you get to adulthood and don't find the adult things rewarding... things like "pride in a clean home." I find buying and eating giant chocolate chip cookies rewarding. However, bikini season is coming up and I don't find the day after said cookie-eating to be very rewarding at all. How does one make the shift between concrete childhood rewards and aesthetic adult reward? I fail.
Last week I watched the Grey's Anatomy season finale. Besides feeling bitter disappointment in myself for debasing my good taste, I felt no sadness in the potential deaths of the annoying blond doctor and the annoying short doctor. Television can only improve with less dynamic duos of bubbly blond ladies and bumbling babyfaced men. However, I did cry when I watched a dog food commercial, a Dove soap commercial, a talking dog on Disney Channel, and when Rocky Raccoon gnawed through the last throbbing shreds of my fallopian tubes.
Thank you for putting up with these disorganized, uterus-strangling-me Monday morning blues. Tune in next time when SO HELP ME THEY HAD BETTER BE GONE. Peace, love.
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