It’s kind of funny, when you suddenly stop caring about things that used to be important. Because no matter what, people are shitty and really I’m not caring anymore. Life is too short to be worrying about how others are going to react to every little thing that you do. Especially if said people may be uptight shit heads who are more than welcome to kiss my ass (insert loving smile here). But I'll try not to be an evil whore about it and start nodding and smiling.
I’ll also attempt to not be an evil whore who fears carbohydrates. God forbid, there are no cashews or string cheese or cherry tomatoes left. The world may stop and the apocalypse will come. I can feel it, every time I see that the amount of string cheese left is slowly dwindling to none. NONE.
My God was it good to see Peter Gallagher last night. I forgot how much I would miss him. Those eyebrows that sarcasm and wit. In my next life I’ll be Kelly Rowan and I’ll get to make out with him and be an alcoholic. Too bad the latter has already come true.
But no, no it has not, after a successful five days (FIVE) without a drink, I’m still breathing and living and I’ve lost weight. Not like 45 lbs, but more like four. Whatever, baby steps people, baby steps.
Never will I complain about my marathon memorial service again. Because the people in Detroit were there for seven hours. SEVEN. That’s what I sat through, with the hunger and the thirst and the need to pee, plus about three more hours. I also shall not complain, because seriously now, it was Rosa Parks. And a very appreciative black female will go to hell for ever complaining in the presence of Rosa Parks. Because not even she complained and she actually had something to complain about. Kind of makes me feel bad for complaining that someone told me to “shove it” or that I had to get rid of my coach bag, or that my ipod is going to Apple heaven never to be returned again.
What is a BAWF without ipod complaints. It’s dead and never to return again. I didn’t think I would be this upset, but in reality I am. No more Natasha Bedingfield. No more Smokey Robinson. No more ABBA gold album. No more. None. El fin. But sadly with this whole, I’m going to save so I can go to Prague, I can’t afford a new ipod, but maybe a shuffle or something, I don’t know. It’s just devastating.
So I guess that will my last complaint, because I haven’t been arrested for sitting in the front of a fucking bus before, so I have no right to complain. I’ll just do it in silence.