So because this is a public blog, and the people who control my paycheck and the seating arrangements at family holiday gatherings read this, I must censor myself, which stinks worse than the shared bathroom on the third floor of my office building. I can't tell you when I'm really ticked about something (unless it's innocuous, like ridiculously imcompetent waiters or how my hair looked like a giant owl pellet at an important event). Nor can I tell you certain hilarious things that happen in my day-to-day because I might end up divorced and penniless, sleeping at my parents' place on a cot under a blanket knit from cat hair.
I recently told a book club I met with (see how I dropped that in there, all nonchalant, like I'm cool?) about an embarrassing event I once wanted to blog about because I found it disturbingly hilarious, and based on their semi-horrified responses, I'm glad I didn't write about that one. So sometimes the censorship ends up being a good thing. For everyone, really.
Anyway, I am experiencing something right now that is the emotional equivalent of enema by nailgun: painful, mildly humiliating, and quite possibly my own damn fault. I may end up telling you about this in the weeks and months to come. I may end up starting a new, completely anonymous blog. I may end up doing nothing at all but eating a bag of Sun Chips in front of a Big Love marathon.
I'm going to pilates tonight, and I really hope someone rips one during class.
When I'm in a mood,
It'll take something crude
For a new attitude.