Of Pasta (which sounds really odd juxtaposed with that first paragraph, but it'll all make sense in the end, I promise! Or not.)

Today is one of those days I just want to curl up under the shower and cry for a while. Except that that would involve getting up off the sofa and my anti-abs hurt way too much for that, thanks to my overenthusiastic kickboxing teacher.

Really. I'm not drunk. I promise.

There was just a street cleaner on my street just now. A street cleaner. On a narrow little residential street in West Jordan with cars parked up both sides as a sort of half-barricade in case we need to go all Les Mis on the mayor for some reason.

It didn't even really clean the street. It just left a wet streak down the middle like a giant motorized slug.

I could have had a point, but that's been done before. So instead, I have a gorilla!

I have a guitar final in roughly two weeks that I'm in no way prepared for. I also have to actually paint some of my final project for watercolour by Saturday morning. I'm also behind thousands and thousands of words on my self-imposed writing goal for the month. So what have I spent my afternoon doing? Well, once I ran out of things to watch on hulu, I turned to Facebook, and was linked from there to hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com. I may never be the same. . . .