Why So Serious?

Tuesday, April 5th, 2011 – later, better, mellower

You guys, seriously. Things are way better now. Less crank. And less back ache, thanks to some concentrated Ibuprofen and the aforementioned magical properties of coffee. I feel like I really might have just discovered the magic cocktail for total world peace and ecstatic well being. I am your new God, worship me!

Plus I’m sitting at home in my most comfy slippers and sweatpants, putting off getting dressed - the royal blue ones I got from Marks and Spencer, with the ultra soft interiors made from the downy hair of newborn kittens or something, that I got for lumbering crazily on the treadmill, but winded up enjoying way more while lounging around at night in weird positions while watching movies or writing blog entries and leaving my old beaten up sweatpants for actually sweating in. I’m cozy. All is well. There’s no need to tread on eggshells anymore, we can all be joyous and happy now. The lion is tamed.

Do you know I haven’t eaten any chocolate in two weeks? Because I haven’t. Stick that in your bong and smoke it. No chocolate, no cake, no cookies. I know, right, I don’t see a flying pig either but there you go. It’s possible the moon is blue this morning or like…Sarah Palin might have said something that made sense, but I doubt it.

 Now I’m not even craving chocolate anymore. I’ve been all about the clementines and the pineapple and the bananas and okay, I still ate some chips, I mean the world isn’t ending or anything. I took my temperature (oral not rectal, I’m not WEIRD) and I seem to be okay. Although I have to point out that maybe the lack of chocolate is responsible for the rise in crank, as witnessed yesterday? See, it’s all making sense… I’d make a graph to illustrate this but honestly? I can’t be bothered. It’s too early. Use your imagination.

I did some running on the treadmill on Sunday. It’s been a while and my running shoes rubbed a blister on my heel, meaning I had to finish my run in my socks. You ought to try running in socks. It’s an ordeal of monstrous proportions. Your calves pull and hurt and make you say bad words and when you wake up in the morning you find that you walk like you drank several G and Ts and went ahead and wedged a cactus up your ass. Coupled with the back muscle thing from sleeping strangely and, well… That’s a recipe for a person who looks not of this planet when you see them waddling down the street, grimacing and talking to themselves in a demented manner.

One more thing. I finally tried ‘Disaronno’ and now I feel sort of shitty that for the last two years I’ve been calling it “Douchearonno” because their commercials suck some salty balls and are full of the sort of people you’d like to bludgeon repeatedly with a mallet. I wasn’t even sure what it was and as the ads were so nasty I never bothered finding out. Turns out it’s pretty much what heaven would taste like if you could bottle it – i.e., pretty sweet and tasty. It’s sort of just a fancy name for Amaretto. And anything that tastes like liquid marzipan, gives you a buzz AND you can drink straight up with ice, without making a lemon face, has to be good, right? And it is.

And I think that’s an appropriate place to call this a day, don’t you?