Oh Chariot

It's common knowledge that when one thing in my life starts going fantastically well, everything else goes to complete shit.

Now that I read that over, I realize it may be a bit melodramatic. Ok...quite a bit melodramatic.

The Chariot (my car) and I got into a bit of a fender bender on our way home this past Friday evening. Not entirely our fault in actuality, but because of insurance and "fault" and all that, technically my fault because I rammed her into the back of a Santa Fe. She and I are both pretty upset about it. She's still driveable but in rough shape. She's worried about her fate, as am I.

The best part about this accident? I told myself that the next time something major happened to her that I would seriously look into replacing her. I've avoided having a real conversation about it because I know she'll be very upset.

Oops I...had a C-section

You must have known that the cheap shots at celebrities would be back. It was only a matter of time. I can only be gooey about being in love in small doses. Otherwise, I'll get sick on myself.

So B. Spears and K. Fed now have a little baby boy. I knew that was coming. What I didn't expect was for B. Spears to have to get sliced open like can of Campbell's Chunky. I can't speak from experience, but I hear that this really ruins your chance to ever have a bikini-worthy stomach, let alone a six pack worthy of a concert tour. I can't say I don't feel a little twinge of guilt for even touching the subject of this kind of misfortune, but I quickly got over it and remembered that I really am a cold bitch at heart. For the rest of my life, I and so many others like me will offically have a better looking stomach than B. Spears. Her sex symbol status, although dying since she started having sex with K. Fed, bed ridden after she announced her pregnancy, is now offically pushing up daisies.

I can't help but snicker. Isn't it awful?

I've become "One of Those"...

...May god have mercy on my soul.

I've set a record for number of days I have not written. I'm upset by it.

To update, I've become completely smitten with Nick. We are in love!! That's right...love!

That said, times, they are a changin.

I recall a time when the sight of snuggly couples, walking hand in hand, looking longingly into each other's eyes, made me throw up in my mouth a little. I looked upon them in scorn, turned away quickly to avert my eyes and placed a look of pure jealous hatred upon my pretty little face.

Now, the response to such a scene goes something like this:

"Aww, look at that couple holding hands! They are so cute! They look like they are in love. Isn't that nice?"

Usual response of the poor slob I'm with (if not actually talking to myself):
"What is wrong with you?"

Many, many apologies.

how will I ever maintain my girlish figure

I don't want to go to my gym anymore. I know I've gone over this.

But here is why...in detail...

I hate it. I hate the meatheads and the slutty girls with their stupid half shirts who only pretend to work out, who I secretly and spitefully hope will someday be fat, divorced housewives. I hate the "trainers" that all look like they just spent two hours getting ready for a frat party and are ready at a moment's notice to shotgun a Power Aide. I hate waiting for machines, where crazy anorexic girls are overworking themselves to no fruitful end. And I hate looking at the stained, leaking ceiling. Worst of all...it's just way too far away for me to even consider going anymore. I know you've all seen the price of gas.

It's not because I'm unmotivated or lazy or tired. It's because I'm bitter. I hate that I've had to go for the last two years and I hate that I even have to pay for it. They should pay ME.

How did I get into this mess, you ask? A moment of pure, weak, instant gratification. I wanted the Stairmaster and I wanted it 5 minutes ago. I wanted to make changes and lose weight and get toned and let off some steam and all those crappy good intentions. In truth, I HATE working out there. I hate getting home from work and knowing I have to leave again, only to go to some shithole with no pool and cracked windows.

What I love is the way I feel afterward. The satisfaction, the exhaustion, the whole soaking in my own sweat thing. But these things do not, in anyway, outweigh the overall feeling of dread I'm met with every time I even think about making the trek over there.

So I've decided that I'll only go when I really have the time or when I'm feeling charitable. Then when my membership runs out in October, I'm off to somewhere so much better. I don't know where and I don't care what the cost is. If anything, this whole experience has taught me that proximity and aesthetics is something I'm willing to get milked for.

And as ridiculously happy as I am right now, I'm tickled to know that I can still access the inner bitch.

FaAAAAAAANtastic.