my foray into this writing world, this public writing world. am I writing in a journal that any stranger can stumble upon? apparently. I’m feeling: let down, tired, chubby, achy and gassy. hey, you asked. oh wait…  you didn’t.

did you know alcohol is a depressant? well, it is. I find it odd that a lot of depressed people self-medicate with alcohol. I tried it last night. Not for the first time, I’ve had a drink or two in my time; what I mean to say is that I set out to use the old alckyhol to escape myself, if but for an hour. If I weren’t too old to bust out the lingo I’d call it an epic fail.  Sparing you, perfect stranger, the boring, unnecessary details I’ll sum it up thusly: I slept on the couch, rather than with my husband in our bed.  Which is to say, I laid on the couch all night, uncomfortably, might I add, sleeping perhaps 5-10 minutes out of of every hour, waking each time a cat scratched around in the litter box, rummaged through the garbage, threw a box of cookies on the floor or walked across my head. Do they do this when I sleep in my bed? Every night, the kitties out here having a party while I slumber behind my closed door? I doubt it. My presence on the couch had them assuming it was time for a wild rumpus.

What am I going to do with myself? She asks into the void that is the internet, not expecting an answer, not expecting anything but more of the same. S’up 2011, what choo lookin’ at?  And what a lame ass entry into the year I’ve made. In every possible way.

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