Happy August. I'm feeling all unsettled, anxious and depressed and paralyzed today. I wish I were one of those famous people with personal assistants such that I could say, "You! Call so and so and get x straightened out!" and "You! Email so and so and get y resolved!" and "You! Tell so and so that z is totally unacceptable and don't take any more excuses." Is having someone to delegate every unpleasant and anxiety-producing task in life to too much to ask for???!!??!!? Please. And, lol.
In other news--and here's how smart I am--I got a pretty bad sunburn on my upper back/shoulders/chest from walking around in a tank top on Sunday. When I go to the beach, I put on SPF 1733. When I go outside not to the beach, I put on nothing. It doesn't matter whether there is sand underfoot or not, Andrea, it's the same fucking sun in the sky. Sigh. 48 years old, college graduate, IQ breaking triple digits, and I still haven't quite figured that out yet.
And let's bitch about Target. I bought a cheapy dress there this weekend. I got it home and could not zip it over my ::ahem:: huge lats (i.e. fat). I returned it for the next size up. Which is too big. Are they trying to fuck with me or what?
And then let's bitch about mother nature. I am pretty sure all the flowers I planted in my backyard are dead or on their way to, while despite Roundup, the weeds on the patio are thriving. If I am destined to kill all plant life I encounter, can't I least kill the shit I *don't* want too? (CJ and Nick seemed to have deserted me, btw, after I expressed a gentle complaint about something. Seriously, I didn't bitch them out or anything. I just said I would rather b than a. Fucking landscapers. That's another email I gotta send. Sigh.)
Now I am going to put on something that is not my bathrobe and go check my mail. Perhaps there is good news in it. More likely there are bills and more aggravation.
Kisses.
xoxo
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