In Which I Sit In The Dark and Shirk my Responsibilities.

I thought about working today, since I have a job and stuff, but fuck, I am tired. I don't have to worry about hair or nails or fat or thin or if I know enough of certain types of information to pass a test with a B or better. I have to worry about feeding myself and paying roommates back and drinking enough water and laundry and shoes and if my tampon is going to spring a leak and if my mom as actually as cool as she prentends to be. I have to worry about cigarettes because I thought I was getting a deal paying $8.75 before sales tax. I have to worry about what bank i'm going to switch to because my current bank is nowhere near me. Well, its near me, but not near enough to warrant the inconvenience of getting there.

Today I tortured myself by planning my wedding. My engagement ring is on Amazon. $100 for 3 carats of simulated pink sapphire. It's pretty. My save the dates will be Chicago postcards. It all started when I was looking through my facebook friends from high school. I started to play the married or engaged game, and it was all downhill from there. When I threw in married with babies, i had to walk away. It was a scary ass scene. But nobody was crying.

I'm going to teach myself to sew. I'm tired of thinking of my body as weird because I am on the cusp of two size categories.

I meant to get some ramen, because last night I had Ben and Jerry's for dinner. Periods rock. Tonight, I promise to eat real food, Or at least try.

I promise to be in touch.

I'm pretty sure I'm still in love. We go on old married dates, and its cute.

In Which $10 Cigarettes Taste No Different Than $6 Ones.

I'm in Chicago. I'm kind of employed, and I need to find the fuck out of my social security card. I remembered that I picked it up at home, but I have no idea where I packed it up.

I need shelves and hangers and more money.

The wedding came. It went. Nobody died. I killed nobody. It was lovely. There were some moments of beauty, and fun and adulthood, moments of awkwardness, and of shameless abandon. These might have been broght to you by the letter Whiskey.

Ricky MArtin is singing "la Vida Loca" on the TV in our room.

I'm a mess. I am also not used to using shared pronouns. I hate feeling like I have to do all these things so nobody's disappointed in me. It's already too late to not disappoint my best friend.

If I think about it anymore, I might cry. Crying is not on my list of things to do.