the week in review…

Nah.. screw that.

It’s going on 11pm. JamesT should hit work any minute, and I’m sitting around waiting for Skittles to call me so we can hook up and go dancing someplace. In prep for this, I’ve tried on every dress and skirt I own, put on stockings, took off stockings, critiqued every pair of shoes, changed necklaces four times, let my hair nearly dry curly, then decide to blow dry it straight, then take the curling iron to it.

I am such a girl.

*sigh* Two hours ago I was on the verge of tears, barely able to talk, but not talking, cuz then I’d probably still be crying. It’s just stress…. I’m still so fat. I hate that bridesmaid dress, it’s so unflattering. I’m going to be the ugliest thing for miles standing up at that wedding, and if it wasn’t Angela, then I’d be leaving the country to avoid having to participate. My hair is terrible. It’s too short. It’s too long. It won’t stay a color that isn’t orange. I can’t get a tan even by paying for one. I want JamesT to go to the wedding, because I need him to be nearby, but then I think about how I’m going to look and then I don’t want him there, so he doesn’t see the hideousness. I’m already dreading how it will probably all be preserved in pictures. I’m so disgusted with my lack of motivation and willpower to make myself exercise, even though I know that dieting alone won’t fix me. I’m stressed when I look at myself. I’m stressed when I let myself down by not exercising. And I’m stressed from this job that puts my blood pressure through the roof from the time I get in the car to drive there in the mornings. I enjoy tempting heart attack fate with the addition of lots of coffee while I’m there. It’s good to stay wound up tight and ready to snap. When I get fired, I want it to be because I cussed somebody the fuck out.

I need somebody to hold onto me and tell me everything will be okay. I need somebody who isn’t trying to get me to prioritize their shit to tell me I look nice today. I need somebody to stop venting their problems for a minute and help me to vent mine. I don’t talk. I’m the quiet one. I feel like damn Deanna Troi sometimes, the goofy smiling empath, sitting around listening to everyone talking, and trying to feel the emotions they are relating with their stories. It’s not all bad. It’s generally very satisfying, actually. 8 million things come to mind to interject while people are talking, but I usually just enjoy the memory of it myself and hold my tongue. Don’t like to feel like I’m stealing anybody’s thunder.

I’m not talking about anything specific. I’m just considering my personality. Trek uncut is on, so Deanna Troi came to mind. I dunno… I think I need help, but I never really learned how to ask for it. I’m too old to need help. Hell, I’m older than my sweetheart and all my friends, and most of them seem to have their shit together. I feel like a real loser asking for help from them. I’m supposed to be older and wiser, right?

Ugh. Call now, skittles, I’m losing momentum. Been crawling into bed pretty early lately, from exhaustion, and if I don’t get out soon, I’m sure the routine will kick in and I’ll curl up and pass out.

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Ooh yes! My walls are a little furry wild animal in need of a poster! Lucky I got your email! Dumb bass.

Perhaps I should go try out the DDR Max and try to get some energy going. And, well, if they poop out and don’t call, then I’ll have gotten some exercise in at least. Ugh.. need tylenol anyway.

Night all.