Tuesday, February 22, 2011

"If I tell you there's cheese on the mountain, you get yourself some crackers, mmk?"

So, I'm walking back from the Caf, eating a granny smith apple and it occurs to me that I really wish you could buy Cheetos powder.

Just the powder. In a little tin. And then you could just stick your fingers in it and lick them, and have the aspect of the Cheetos experience you really enjoy. Also you could use it as a condiment on all sorts of things. I mean, I'd make Cheetos Mac and Cheese. Chester-fy my pizza. It would make mashed potatoes all kinds of more interesting. They could even sell the powder for the Flamin' Hot kind. I love those.

It also occurred to me today that I need to learn to say, out loud and to other people, when I'm in a bad mood, rather than just try and force myself to act normally, and end up exploding into this brutally mean Tasmanian Devil style temper tantrum that culminates in me sitting in a heap on the floor and wailing, "Why am I such an aaawwwwffffuuuuullll person? Whhhhhy?" And then I spend the rest of the night sitting in the dark in my Snuggie, reading PWP fan fiction and thinking about how for sure no one likes me now.

I have an assertiveness problem - when I first started running and I hadn't figured out how to eat and I would have to put something in my face every two or three hours, I would literally almost faint before I would say something. I need to learn how to say to my mom, for instance, that I don't feel like talking to her about the Dharma Drama of the Week, because my tattoo hurts and I'm tired for no reason and I just wanna stream old episodes of Antiques Roadshow and read Christopher Moore.

Life would be easier if we all had indicator lights like cars. Oil low. Engine overheating. Check engine. And then we could just look at each others' panels and know, oh, okay. She didn't snap at me because my RPMs are too high - she needs to check her tire pressure. She didn't have her routine maintenance done even though her sticker clearly indicates that she should have about 2,000 miles ago.

I went to the gym to try and sweat it out, but they booted me off the treadmill after 34 minutes so that a girl wearing hot pink booty shorts over baggy black sweatpants could walk on it. I'm sorry, and I preface this by reminding you that I've already admitted I was in a bad mood, but how is a leisurely amble in place at all comparable to an 8:30 paced runner who had been planning on going for another 26 minutes? If I'd known they were gonna kick me off after 30 instead of the usual 60 - some baloney about peak hours - I would have gone faster and made it a tempo. She could have gone for that walk outside. I'm working here.

See? Needle just spiked into the red. Gotta roll down the windows and turn on the heat, because I can't do anything about the traffic, and I don't want to bust my radiator.

What I mean to say is, time to watch Antiques Roadshow. Peace, y'all.

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