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The 4-Hour February: Weight Loss and Freelancing

These two guys are my personal heroes.

It’s been a hell of a month.  In addition to starting regular weight training with an at-home kettlebell routine, getting back on the SCD eating plan, and succumbing at least once to a sugar-blackout induced by a bowl of strawberry cake puppy chow, I’ve also been enrolled in Ramit Sethi’s Earn1k course in the hopes that I will eventually be an independently wealthy jet-setter.

So far, my progress has been one promising new freelance lead (a bakery!  woo!) and pretty speedily getting back to my pre-holiday weight and size, as well as starting to develop noticeable muscle tone in my arms and a magically gravity-defying ass.

The thing that’s so encouraging is that I know if I were devoting more time to either project, they’d both skyrocket in terms of success, but I’m making enough progress at a happy enough pace to relax and just enjoy the fact that things are actually improving in a slow but sure way.

On the travel front, I’m planning on visiting my friend Catha in Germany over my 26th birthday in April.  26 kinda freaks me the hell out, what with passing mid-20s and all, so I figure being in a foreign country where I don’t speak even the first word of the language might be a nice distraction from my fear of aging and failure.

I’ve also been doing a lot of research on Buenos Aires.  I think going solo for a week in the winter (which would be Argentine summer) to stay in a hostel, take some tango classes, and practice my Spanish (which is currently at an at-least-she’s-trying level of non-fluency) would be an excellent use of my newfound enhanced vacation time.  I thought about going with G Adventures – the company that I went with to Costa Rica – but I figure since I’d be in the same city the whole time, that’d probably be more of a hinderance than anything else, plus it’s kind of pricey.

So, that’s been my February.  Not generally the inspired writing fancy that generally moves me to blog, but I did make a resolution to do it monthly and we’re woefully close to the end of the month here.



The Lives of Adjusters

Building Management Gestapo = fascinated by our losses


So, earlier this week, we found listening devices in the walls of my workplace.  When I say we, I mean my boss and myself, not my coworkers and myself … because yeah, whoever is listening to us is in no way affiliated with our company. 

Basically, we rent half of a duplex office building in a community-style office annex in Westchase.  The other half of the building is occupied by the building manager/deed holder and we lease it out.  

I’m relatively new here, but my coworkers (all three of them) have been using this building for only the last six months or so, after an incident in the old office in Central Tampa in which one of the adjusters went back to the office after hours and heard gunshots next door.  That’s all I’ve got of that story and I have a feeling that’s all I’m going to get. 

Anyway, apparently Brian, my boss, has been suspicious about the rather obvious wiring running from several protruding points in the wall into the building next door, but was told long ago that it was retired security equipment from when the space was rented out by a software firm.  

So, Gestapo Building Management, as we’ll call the creepy, creepy man next door (heretofore known as GBM), could’ve gotten away with what I’m sure are the most fascinating eavesdropped audio clips on earth about countless stolen air conditioning units and convenience store robberies (less than $1,000 and lots o’ cigarettes, always), and your occasional gem like this guy, who set his girlfriend’s apartment on fire because she criticized his sexual performance, and then eluded police capture for several hours, totally nude but for a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.  

People are awesome. 

Anyway, GBM completely gave himself away.  The events transpired as follows: 

  1. 4 months ago (January 2010), GBM’s brother, who owns a carwash service came to the annex to offer $15 discounted carwashes to businesses in the area.  My boss purchased one.  BUT HE ONLY HAD A $20!
  2. The guy did a good job.  Brian told them to just keep the $20, no big deal.
  3. (unspecified creepy activities next door)
  4. Tuesday, April 27, 2010 – Brian makes a joke about how the guy next door owes him $5
  5. Wednesday, April 28, 2010 – GBM randomly shows up at the front door.  He looms ominously, waiting to be acknowledged, a crisp $5 crumpled in his clammy fist
  6. Creeped out silence
  7. I inch forward to retrieve the $5.  GBM glides backward out the door, which shuts itself on a gale of supernatural wind.
  8. My Co-workers immediately scramble to check suspicious things in the ceiling.  Listening devices are found.
  9. What the hell.
  10. Aside from my social security number, which I”ve definitely given out over the phone here in the office, what else does GBM know about me?
  11. Furthermore, what was he hoping to hear? 
  12. What could he possibly want to know?
  13. None of my readers are in the least bit surprised by this story.

Don’t Burn the Hand that Feeds You

Looks Like Comfort Food - But Will Scar you For Life.

Looks Like Comfort Food - But Will Scar you For Life.

I sit typing today with my charred and shrivelled thumb angled strategically away from the keyboard – my left hand is in quite a state.  Obviously I’ve had a rough few weeks since being exiled back to Tampa. 

After frantic job hunting last week, I finally landed a temporary assignment for two weeks answering phones at a legal firm near the house.  Relieved that I had a little bit of temporary security, I fell asleep on Friday night thinking things may actually start looking up (I’d also had another temporary offer from the other agency I’ve registered with, and that seemed like a positive thing to me). 

However, to my horror, Sunday I woke up with a scratchy throat and a hell of a sneeze.  Right, I thought to myself, better nip this thing in the bud and make myself a hot pot of soup.  I went with a baggie of organic split pea mix I had in the cabinet because I wasn’t in the mood to make a big effort and left the thick green goo simmering on medium for about half an hour.

When it was finished, I crawled out of my room, already feeling like death warmed up, and reached for a ladle and a mug and in the process of pouring myself a warm cup of healing, I splashed scalding soup all over my left hand.  I dont’ remember much of what followed.  I know I dropped the mug into the pot of soup and lurched for the tap to put my hand under cold water, and that at some point I must’ve called for my mom in the next room to find her burn cream, but I was under the mistaken impression it was just one of those minor oopsies that happens when you cook.

Bored Out of My Everloving Mind - Can I (PLEASE!) help you?

Bored Out of My Everloving Mind - Can I help you? Please?

My vibrant red and blistered hand would beg to differ over the next day.  I ended up at the hospital, being covered in silvadine and wrapped up tight, given a bottle of vicodin for the pain and told to just wait it out.  There’s a lot of graphic and painful crap that’s followed, but for now, at lesast I can type, and I never did lose my voice, even though I spent the entire week coughing and sneezing and making a general scene of myself at the front desk of this law firm.

The job itself is so uneventful it’s almost comedic.  I was actually told to bring a book to keep myself entertained between the instances where the phone rings.  Actually, considering I spent the entire week doing crossword and japanese number puzzles, reading three novels, and baking cookies (yeah, that’s part of my job description – lawyers need cookies), $10/hr seems overly generous, and 9 hours a day seems like 90.

Luckily, about halfway through the week, the recruitment agency, which is handily located in the same building as this temp job, called me about a new (full time!) opportunity.  This one with a marketing firm nearby with an amazing website and an even more amazing job description.  I don’t want to get too into it because, I’ve already gotten my hopes up way too much to be healthy if I get rejected, but let’s just leave it at I interview on Tuesday.

The recruiter actually asked me if I could lose the hand bandage for the interview, so I took it off to show her the hand.  After staring at it in silence for a bit longer than what was strictly comfortable, she suggested I wewar ultra long sleeves.

I should also mention that during the process of writing this blog post, I set the house on fire again.  Boiling eggs for breakfast.  A nearby bag of twizzlers went up in flames.  Airing the house out now.  I guess I should avoid anything heat-related on weekends 😦


7 Rumors You May Have Heard About France


Not actually visible from every point in France

Not actually visible from every point in France

Rumor #1.)  French Women Don’t Get Fat

Yes, I’m sorry, but it’s true.  I am hereby validating the title of the Bestselling Diet Book.  French women are svelte and happily showing off their topless bikini-bodies by the piscine muncipale well into their golden years.

The real falsehood here is the assumption that this is due to eating lots of healthy food and frequent exercise.  That’s just not true.

The reality of it is this:  French Women are Magic.

Maybe it’s genetics, or perhaps some secret tonic passed down from French mother to French daughter throughout the millennia, but somehow, miraculously, they keep it off on a steady diet of bread, cheese, wine, chocolate, raw beef, and cigarettes and a mystery exercise regime seen by none, as all the gyms are empty and there are no super-chic joggers on the highway paths in the after-work hours.

After all, that time is reserved for wine in the café and maybe a little goûter.

Rumor #2.) Cheese, Wine, Chocolate, and Baguettes are Daily Fare

Yep, as evidenced above.  And it’s delicious.  

Rumor #3.) Berets are a Common Fashion Accessory

This is not something I have witnessed myself, so it leads me to believe that it probably isn’t true.  Sure, there are lots of people walking around town carrying baguettes and/or smoking, but the beret has either been outgrown, or simply never was.

Rumor #4.) The French Are Prone to the Phrase “Ooh, la, la”

I know this one sounds ridiculous, but it actually is true, and has many variations.  From a very butch tennis instructor telling my six year old she can’t wear Vans to practice, to the six year old in question finding a bug offensive and coquettishly side-stepping it with a breathy, “ooh! lá!”  

I hope she enjoys her cellulite-less future.

Rumor #5.) All the Women are Sexpots and All the Men are Debonair

No.  No, no, no.  I suspect this was at one time true.  But it destroyed itself.  

The following is my theory:

The women, once sexually liberated and fancy-free began to struggle to attract the attention of all the playboys in the ball-game.  They thus became slightly pouty and hard-to-get, which immediately roused the interest of the French men, who were used to easy play.

As a result, the modern gender roles are displayed by men who think the slightest encouragement means an invitation for mattress aerobics and women you never see, because they’re all so damn hard to get.  

It’s hard to make friends here.

Rumor #6.) Porn is Readily Accessible on Cable Television

Ehhh … depends on your definition of porn.  There are certainly lots of boobies, but no hardcore stuff.

Rumor #7.) Everyone’s Cheating on His/Her Spouse

Yeah … it seems to be pretty much accepted here that everyone cheats.  That could be more to do with the fact that I live in a small village than with the fact that I live in France, but I do suspect it’s a cultural thing.

After all, Sarkozy’s romantic adventures hardly make the news here.  And everyone thinks Berlusconi, in neighboring Italia, is just kind of amusing.  

And besides, everyone here is so thin!


… any questions?


No, No, This is All Wrong

Mimmi, Lisa (above), Nadine, Me, and Angelina

Mimmi, Lisa (above), Nadine, Me, and Angelina

Where’s the snow?  Where are my multi-ethnic ski bunny friends?  Where’s Saloon?!

Today I ventured outside for the first time since the vomit/sneeze/complain fiasco of Tuesday evening.  Mystery Graham showed up at around 8:30 this morning with my car, two children in tow, a spare set of keys to my car that didn’t exist two months ago, and an identity I still don’t recognize.

Regardless, I was pretty damn happy to see Mystery Graham, because I need food.  I need food like you wouldn’t believe.

Yesterday, I ate:

  1. One (1) Handful – Peanuts
  2. One (1) Bowl – Salted oven fries
  3. One (1) Bowl – strange noodly pasta with olive oil and salt and cheese

The best part of this is that I ate all of these things in the final third of a day so boring that I watched Black Hawk Down and Kill Bill back to back, with unoptional French subtitles (which really put a damper on the Japanese bits of Kill Bill).

The rest of my day consisted of sneezing, some Class-A self pity, trying to avoid the cat, giving into the cat, being mercilessly pawed and annoyed by the cat, then using the cat to explain away all the creepy noises this house makes at night.

Janine, myself, and Priscilla-of-the-RSS-feed at Ibar in May

Janine, myself, and Priscilla-of-the-RSS-feed at Ibar in May

Today at the supermarché, spending 10€ from the 140€ I have left in the world, I purchased the following:

  1. Three (3) Frozen Dinners
  2. Hamburger buns (might as well eat those patties)
  3. Box of Cereal

I then took out my first ever subscription to a blog’s RSS feed, which belongs to my friend Priscilla and her blog – I figure subscribing means I owe her the pingback, but if you break up with my blog for hers, I will hunt you down via the personal info WordPress gives me when I get a hit.  Polyandry I will allow.

Today I need to unpack and get my room and the house back to rights ahead of time so I can relax and try to meet up with some of the new au pairs.  Angelina (the brunette in the photo at the top of the post) is back in town after going with her host family (neé Catharina’s host family) on a summer holiday, so we talked about meeting up sometime today as well as Lisa’s replacement, another German girl called Frederike.  Lou also mentioned a girl named Lucy who is Zuzana’s replacement, and I’ll eventually try to track down the Icelandic girl I met at the Saloon-is-closing-now bbq in the spring.

Fun times at Saloon (Notice Angelina's Camera Action)

Fun times at Saloon (Notice Angelina's Camera Action)

Angelina will be great to have around this summer because she’s so damn camera happy and I’m still kicking myself for the lack of photos I have from the winter.  And because I don’t have a camera out here due to a series of events that has left it in care of my friend Jesse (while I’m at it with the pingbacks – back in America.

Anyway, I hardly recognize the place.  When I left, Spring was just starting to poke through.  The snow had gone, but there were still the white-capped mountains in the distance and the baby vegetation peeking up through the landscape that’d been smothered in a thick blanket of snow for so many months.

Now, the mountains are brown and red, and maybe assisted by fog, but they’ve lost the fairytale beauty that the snow added for me.  The ground is covered with overgrown grass and huge blankets of yellow and purple and white wild flowers.

I’m sure I’ll come to appreciate it like this, especially if I factor in a walk down by the river later today or drive to the previously-frozen-over lake in the mountains for a swim or a sunbathe, but when you associate a place with snow and ice and skiing, and suddenly it’s a summer paradise where you can go to the super market without a coat, it’s a little bit jarring.

Briançon in the Winter

Briançon in the Winter

Oh well, onward and outward, I guess.  No matter how good the summer is, I think I’ll always remember Serre Chevalier the way it was, though.  Covered in ice and snow, full of excitable winter sports tourists, the constant hum of the chair lifts in the distance, and ill informed nights at Saloon, taking repreive from the cold with my friends at a rustic wooden table in the back corner with whatever the bartenders were throwing our way keeping us warm.

I’ll remember hanging laundry with Mimmi in the back garden as the snow melted, or climbing up to the ruined citadel with Catharina, or throwing a stick for a giant stray dog in the early morning hours in Chantemerle when James visited on my birthday weekend.  I’ll remember wiping out too many times in my attempts to ski, swimming out of deep snow, being passed by more competent adolescents, and ruining my big toenail.

It was a good winter.


Pueblo Ingles – Pt. 5

So, since I’m restricted to bed and this pile of tissue next to me today, I think I’ll continue on with my Spain saga, lest I never finish it –

Day 6 – Hikes to Exotic Locales:

The ruins in the mountains

The ruins in the mountains

I had one of those mornings (much like today, actually) where you wake up and, just for a moment, you forget the turmoil of the previous day, but upon opening your eyes or rolling over, or in this case, flexing your hand, you are jolted rudely back to stark reality and the realization that “oh crap, that really happened.”

pi_day_6_026I remember looking over at my limp, bandaged hand like an unattractive bed buddy after a drunken night out and frowning.  My self-pitying contemplations, however, were cut off by a knock at my door, as the calvary (in the form of Sam), had come to make sure I hadn’t died of a concussion the previous night.

After shouting that I was alive and well, and remembering we had a hike up to the abandoned village in the mountains this morning, I stumbled out of bed and into some jeans and continued stumbling out the door and down to the green in front of the dining area, where I was greeted with a round of applause and the realization that this group of people are a bunch of gossips.

pi_day_6_019It was at breakfast that I realized not being able to flex my hand had rendered me completely incapable, and I had people cutting my food for me and pouring my orange juice.  At least I was in a supportive environment, which really did help, but having the constant attention drawn to my hand after the whole getting robbed thing had turned me into a bit of a running joke.

pi_day_6_016The hike up the hills was really nice.  The morning air had a crisp breeze to it that made the physical activity easier to handle, and the conversation was loud and chatty and enthusiastic.

When we reached the village area, most of which was caved in, many of us split off to explore, enjoying the dilapitated church tower and the houses with things like cradles and dinner tables still propped against the crumbling walls on the inside.  We stayed up there for a little over an hour before heading back.

The Group Gets Away From Me on the Hike Back

The Group Gets Away From Me on the Hike Back

The walk back was a completely different story.  Completely uphill and in the now blazing sun, I could feel my lungs start to labor to keep me at pace with everyone.  The last thing I wanted to do in lieu of the recent injury on top of the robbery was have an asthma attack in front of everyone, so I kept quiet and continued to trudge on, though I wasn’t good for much conversation.

Also, as we became slightly sweatier on the hike up, I noticed my injured hand throbbing progressively worsening, and decided to take a look under the bindings when we got back to home base.

There was a bbq picnic waiting on the lawn when we trudged back up to the dining area, much to everyone’s delight.  Filling up a plate with chargrilled chicken and veggie shishkebabs I found a chair in the shade to collapse upon, and though I was enjoying lunch with the people sitting around me very much, I’d noticed that the veins in my wrist below the cuts had taken on a brownish hue.

Some of the Guys Enjoy a Beer with their BBQ

Some of the Guys Enjoy a Beer with their BBQ

In a moment of privacy, I peeled back the bandage and was horrified to see how inflamed the wound had gotten overnight (or maybe over the course of the hike).  It especially worried me because of how actively it was still hurting.

After taking this info to the school directors, they informed me that they’d made me an appointment at the clinic in Pedro Manrique and that we’d go right after lunch.  Brian loaded me up with one of the cooks (not José) and we were driven into town.

Relaxing on the Lawn with Alicia

Relaxing on the Lawn with Alicia

The clinic itself was a one room hospital type deal with a reassuring Doctor with a big, bushy red beard and a very tall nurse with waist length black hair and the catch prhase, “no duele.”

What they did to me was slightly tortorous, meaning there was, in fact, lots of duele. The wound was scrubbed, rinsed with saline, and then all the bad skin was cut away with a razor and some tweezers before being smothered in a green antiseptic gel and bandaged away.

They gave me a teatnus vaccine as a precaution as well, which was kind of painful and caused me to have a sore swollen bicep for the next several days.

When we got back, I was immediately shunted into the meeting room to work on a theatre piece I completely forgot I’d volunteered for that evening.  I was feeling relatively rough, but I’m so glad I stuck it out, because we ended up having an amazing time putting on a faux dating show type production wherein I ended up embracing how rough I looked and playing a butch truck-driving contestant.

The rest of the night was chatty and I was relieved to feel like my hand wasn’t on fire anymore.  There was a brief bout of stargazing, and the sky was so clear you could even see NASA satellites making their rounds, but when it came down to it, I’d been exhausted by the day and just needed to get some sleep.


The Day I Threw Up in My Employer’s Ex-Husband’s Car.

What a shit day.  Seriously.  Not the glorious return to France that it should’ve been at all, but a teeming trek through various forms of public transport, a few contracted illnesses and as mentioned in the title, vomit.

Last night was lovely, despite yesterday also being rather crap.  James and I stayed at a hotel in Reading so that I could walk to the train station this morning at the stomach turning 5:30am call.

After a day wherein we realized I’d left my computer charger at the hotel spa we stayed at for his birthday and the hotel staff’s insistance that it wasn’t there, I spent a large part of my day yesterday attempting to track down, and then eventually taking a two and a half hour trip to purchase a £60+ charger for my Mac, allt he while attempting to pack my posessions in a uniform manner and be ready to go to the hotel by 5pm to get my euros and book my flight back to the US.

Anyway, all that settled, we got to the hotel fine and had dinner at Giraffe with a couple of absurdly expensive frozen cocktails before heading back for a relaxed last night together before my banishment back to the Alps.  We drifted off to sleep sometime around midnight, only to be jolted awake four hours later by James’ blackberry alerting us to the fact that I was in for a not so pleasant day.

So, an hour and a half on the train to Gatwick, followed by a two hour flight on the wing in front of a screaming, kicking child, then an hour long coach to Torino, followed by two hours on a malfunctioning train with no air ventilation in the Italian summer later, I sat my exhausted ass down in Oulx and waited for my ride back to Briançon.

The train journey was particularly arduous due to the heat and the fact that a double decker train required me to drag my 50lb suitcase up or down a flight of stairs in the oven that was that train.  There were a few Italian boys sitting behind me.  I know they were discussing Lost because the words, “Jacob,” “Ben,” “Hurley,” and “Lost” were amidst the muddle of Italian.  Is it stupid that I was actually worried about spoilers when I don’t speak the damn language?

Also, attempting to use the lift in the Oulx train station kinda made me fear for my life, as the elevator isn’t so much a lift as it is a moving platform that slides up and down a glass tube, and being in there with four other women and another suitcase was way over the weight limit.

We actually broke the one on the way up, and one of the old women actually insisted on helping me carry my suitcase up the stairs since I couldn’t use it.  Chivalry is not dead.

Anyway, I sat there for about 3 hours, which is less than I was expecting yesterday, so I’m not going to complain.  The only problem was having to lug my giant suitcase and backpack with me every time I wanted to pee, get tissue (I’d started to have a runny nose), or check the time (my phone thinks it’s April 2007 and is about seven and four elevenths hours too fast).

Having no working phone, I tried to remain optimistic that there would be no problems, and mercifully, after reading the entirety of “He’s Just Not That Into You” whcih came with my Glamour magazine (which I also finished), and five chapters of The Elegance of the Hedgehog, in spun Olivier’s minibus, carrying a full house of sweaty teenage boys fresh from a mountain biking excursion in Italy (Olivier runs a sports school – bikes in the summer, skis in the winter).

– I should mention that Lou couldn’t come get me because she’s currently on holiday with the girls until Sunday, and that finding a way to transport me back to Briançon today (the cheapest flight day), was a bit of a trial.  Also, as I was unable to top up my French phone in England, there was some concern about that.  And I’m out of money.  it’s all gone.  I’m broke. –

Anyway, I climbed into the back of the minibus next to a dusty young man who attempted to speak to me in English and we were off, tearing through the Alpine landscape at a rate that would’ve put even José the Spanish Chef to shame.

I attempte to close my eyes.  That didn’t work.  I attempted to focus on the skyline.  That didn’t work either.  My nose was becoming progressively more congested and I could feel my stomach starting to turn.  I don’t vomit very often, so I thought I’d just hold it and feel sick for a while, and at the rate we were going, we’d be in Briançon in no time, but I was wrong.

There was a little surge, and I leaned forward, vaguely hearing the alarmed cries of the boy to my left, then I released an almighty projectile stream of humiliation all over the damn door jamb.  Kill me now.

There wasn’t much, because I haven’t really eaten today (remember, I’m broke).  I had a little breakfast sandwich and some OJ on the plane and a small baguette at the airport and some mints, so at least the mess wasn’t epic.

Olivier pulled over quickly and I kind of head-first tumbled out of the car in a full flip, landing sprawled on my rear, onto the side of the mountain and sat in the gravel contemplating my fate whilst being vaguely aware of people scrambling to clean up the mess.  I think I dabbed at my soiled feet with my hoodie (that’ll need a wash).  I was incredibly disoriented.

Olivier’s sidekick, someone I’d previously not noticed over the overpowering sensation of mountain biking teen smell handed me a wet towel which he produced from God knows where, and actually took my hand and walked me to a magical stream on the side of the road so I could wash my feet and shoes.  Whoever the hell he was, I owe him a hug.

When I walked back, sheepishly to the minibus, apologizing profusely to anyone in sight, they all just seemed really amused.  Olivier asked if maybe he was driving too fast (of course he was, but I dissented), and a teen with shoulder armor asked me if I was not used to mountain roads.  I’m from Florida, so I guess not.  At least not at that speed and in the back seat.

I was kind of zoned in and out for the rest of the journey, but I won’t lie, immensely relieved when we got to the house.  I don’t have my car because some mystery person called Graham has it right now, so Olivier said a bit nervously that I’ll probably want to get food tomorrow, and he’ll take care of it if I just give him a call.

After a little more hesitation he added, “Even if you want to go tonight.”

I realized why immediately upon walking into the house.  There is nothing left here.  There are some canned vegetables and a bottle of mustard in the refrigerator.  Nothing.  I had a can of lentils and a hamburger patty for dinner, andd that’s not the end of it.

I realized quickly that my health was deteriorating as soon as I got here.  I guess the gods let me stave off the suffering until the travel had finished, but I’m quite sick now, and I’ve been wrapped in bed with a roll of toilet paper, my lentils, my computer, and narcotic amounts of Neurofin Cold and Flu that somehow (magically) ended up in my luggage from James’ place.

I hope I’m able to manage a trip to the grocery store tomorrow, otherwise I think I’ll be smashing up lasagna noodles and hoping for the best.  I could really do with some soup though.

I’m ill, I miss my boyfriend, I need to unpack and reorganize my room (which has been a bit taken apart since I left), I miss my boyfriend, I need to wash my hoodie and my purse and some of my clothes from England, I need to work on my CV, and did I mention that I miss my boyfriend?

For now, I think I’ll just remain swaddled in this duvet, listening to the cat slam itself desperately against my door (I want to love you!  But you make me sneeze worse!) and hope sleep takes ahold of me soon … because I’m out of reading material.

(OH!  Also.  I broke my damn pinkie toe, I think.  It’s all swollen and purple.  I did this yesterday while trying to pack and search for my nonexistant computer charger.  It hurts.  FML)

May 2018
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