I go to work.

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

et's talk about how fucking unmotivated I am. I don't write enough. That much is obvious. Painfully. And that's something I LIKE to do. You can just forGET things I hate doing. I'll be lying in bed, a mere 8 steps to the bano, dying to pee, and won't do it. I'll hold it 'til morning doing, as my mother insists, major damage to my innards. Don't even visualize the gym or exercise of any kind. I used to go swimming regularly (like once a month or something), but I'm really slow, and there'd always be this speed demon with a really petite suit and mean flip-turns that'd be proctologizing me, brushing my childbearingly thick ankles with his fingers, until I pulled over and let him past, at which point I'd be out of sorts and off my oats, all out of whack, and WINDED. So of course I stopped doing THAT. I also put off banking, getting gas, brushing my teeth (I've been getting all of these threatening "time to make an appointment" letters from my new frisco dentist who has found FOUR ohmygod CAVITIES that need to be filled, one in each corner of my mouth, cavities that my Hell A (it's really cool, here in frisco, to call Los Angeles "hell a" and that's why I do it) dentist, named Dr. Prince (really), had never noticed. Obviously, Dr. Prince is WAY better a dentist.), filling the ice-cube tray, changing a tampon, returning movies, answering email, and laundry. I put it all off until, more than often, it's a shade too late. Which certainly spices up a white suburban staid life such as mine.

I always remember to eat, however. I heart eating! Eating for pres!

I've started to wish I was an insomniac, since all of my cute and successful friends have trouble sleeping. They're always full of vim and vinegar, ready to really get at 'em. They get all sorts of shit done. I can't even water my garden, which I'm actually really excited about (mi vida small!) My friend from third grade, China (who sent me this CRAZY bouquet for my birthday, which, thank you very much, was last wednesday. Receiving a monster bunch of flowers was something that, up until that very special day, I've never had the pleasure experiencing. I never wanted it to end...I kept the guy who delivered it at my door as long as I could, do I change the water? how often? what's THIS so-cute flower? hoping that someone would see us, like maybe my cool-patrol neighbors who think, I'm not sure why, I'm religious...maybe 'cause I once told one of them that I would pray for him. It was huge, bigger than any of the arrangements the pretty girls in college would get on V-day. It was ginormous, all these white roses and peonies exploding everywhere, like a bridal bouquet, something which I'm sure I'll never see the likes of), who's a SUCCESSFUL ARTIST (really...people buy her stuff, which is REALLY CUTE), sleeps like only four hours a day.

I'm off to get animal crackers (not a metaphor).