Sell both your kidneys on the internet!

I have inexplicably bad days. I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I didn’t forget to set my alarm. I didn’t have trouble sleeping. I have clean underwear. My hair looks great. I’m not worried about the things I have to get done that day. It’s not my ‘time of month’. I’m not running late. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It’s baffling. Yet, there it is. Bad Day.

I refrain from unnecessary interaction with society on my mystifyingly bad days. I don’t make eye contact. I put in headphones to deter polite conversation. I brace myself to resist an unquenchable thirst for the souls of the joyful. I curb the overwhelming need to choke others with the fetid stench of my hostility. I paste a saccharine smile on my face when an unsuspecting victim cheerfully chirps their hopes for me to enjoy my day, whilst I reel in the threads of inky blacks and oily greys straining to darken theirs.

Then someone re-posts something slightly offensive and mildly shocking that I enjoyed with gusto. You’re welcome.


I have this friend named Janice.

My friend Janice was named after her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-infinitygreat-grandfather (her parents were concerned  ‘Janus’ came with too many responsibilities, but they went with it anyway). She’s a pretty awesome friend. Sometimes she’s super-awesome. Sometimes she’s a real downer. She’s got that little something extra that raises her to a different level. Like, I don’t know, the level of a descendant of a Roman god wont to drowse on Mount Olympus (which, by the way, was sublet to the Greeks for some time until the damages they incurred exceeded the security deposit, but that’s another story for another day…).

Janice is my imaginary friend. I KNOW she’s imaginary. Sort of.  No one can see her. No one can talk to her (not even me, at times), or reason with her (least of all me!). Some people know about her, and even believe she’s there, but try to pretend she doesn’t exist (she really hates that, and throws epic hissy fits). But she’s with me. All the time. I will never be without her. Ever. I wish I could explain her, really make people SEE her. Or truly GET it. Or her. Or me. I’m lucky to have loved ones who try, but so many times, they forget to get the impact her ‘being’ has on my life. It’s a lot to ask.

She’s the angel on my right shoulder, the devil on my left, and the nameless, bewildered creature squatting on my head whilst clutching my hair for dear life. Sometimes it’s exhausting bearing the burden of her constant presence. I don’t talk to her when others are around, because that would be kind of weird (and would likely lead to a long, involuntary vacation at an undisclosed location where they serve lots of soft foods that don’t require any utensil more threatening than a spork). She shapes seemingly simple situations (omg almost accidental alliteration!) into something hopelessly complicated. She is never boring. She hoards emotions, then blasts them back at me when I’m most vulnerable. What can I say? She’s kind of a bitch that way.

I don’t think everyone gets to have a Janice of their own. Just like not everyone gets to live with bipolar disorder, or depression, or anxiety, or chronic pain, or ptsd, or MS, or cancer, or blindness, or a crippling case of the heebie-jeebies, or diabeetus, or old timer’s. I KNOW my travels with Janice have never been boring, that’s for sure, and they are far from over – whither thou goest, and all that. I just wish she would stop making friends along the way!

Lists and spreadsheets and logs and journals!!!

I really should be making a list of lists of things I should be doing daily, lists of things I should be doing weekly, and lists of things I should be doing monthly. Lists of things I need to remember, lists of things to cross off so I can forget. Lists. They make me feel organized when they are, in fact, reminders of how disorganized I actually feel. Though I should be making that list, I’m writing about the list instead.

I know I touched on this before – I think it was in a post about New Year’s Resolutions. Clearly it’s still an issue. ‘Lists’ of ‘tasks’ suck. I could come up with a witty description that eliminates the word ‘suck’, but why? It’s clear and to the point. True, there are some things that need to be written down so I don’t forget; but what about the list I make AFTER I’ve already completed the tasks JUST so I can cross them off? That’s more of a log than a list. Oh crap, should I be writing lists AND logs???

Okay, so now that I’ve realized I need lists AND logs, I’m thinking that if I create a spreadsheet, I can kill two birds with one stone. I can make a monthly spreadsheet, indicate the frequency of the task, and allow space to check each item off! Unfortunately, the page is only so big, and I may need more space for comments and additional items, right? Good lord, now I need to create spreadsheets to eliminate lists and logs AS WELL AS a journal to make note of anything else of importance.

I’m the type who needs a fresh notebook every time I decide to get organized. I’m okay with ripping pages out of an old one if it happens to be spiral bound or perforated legal pad, but feel I should either file or shred the (now obsolete) removed pages. I’m all set, though. I’ve got my spreadsheet of lists and logs AND my journal. HOWEVER. I now have a spreadsheet and a journal, but I need them to be in the same place so I can refer to them both at the same time, right? So… if I put them in a file folder, I’m in good shape.

So I’ve got the file folder for my spreadsheet (lists and logs) and journal, and I can move forward in an orderly fashion once I print out the spreadsheet.

My printer is out of paper.

I’m going back to bed.

Awesome things i did this morning before 9am

Woke up with the Narwhal song in my head.

Put on 2 pairs of underwear (you can never be too prepared!). Edit: One after the other, in underwear layers, not due to any physical ‘incidents’. Really.

Decided to trim a pair of workout pants that were too long. Cut off a half inch too much. Made them too short for normal pants, too long for capris. Trimmed in 1/8th inch increments until they were acceptable capri length.

Carried scissors used for above seamstress-ish project from room to room. Finally setting them down on the kitchen counter. Realized I needed to return them to my desk mere seconds after settling into my desk chair. Walked upstairs to retrieve them. Got distracted by something shiny. Went back to my desk. Settled into desk chair. Realized I left the scissors upstairs again. Walked upstairs to retrieve them. Got a drink of water. Took my morning medications. Started back to my desk. Realized halfway down that I almost forgot the scissors yet again. Went back up the half flight of steps. Got the scissors. Went back to my desk.

Attempted to make the adorable sock bunny below, but my scissors were too dull. Realized the socks I chose were too thick. Spilled rice on the floor. Ended up making a freak show bunny that looked like it had been caught under the lawnmower.

DIY Sock BunnyDIY Sock Bunny (No Sew) This is the perfect craft for spring and Easter.Credit: Handimania

Posted by DIY & Crochet Addict on Thursday, March 17, 2016

Decided I should definitely sleep a little later.

Because my toaster

Toast is a very versatile vehicle for a vast variety of victuals. The process of toasting bread is pretty straightforward. A toaster isn’t a complicated appliance. Regular sliced bread goes in a regular sized toaster. Thicker breads go into a toaster oven. Push the button. Don’t touch the hot metal. Wait for bread to pop out. Slather, pile, or dunk as desired.

Today started out well enough. Had I stayed in bed, it would have gone great. However, I’m told it’s necessary to make my incomparable contribution to society. Get out of bed, they said. You’ll feel better, they said. Have breakfast. Most important meal of the day! I rumbled into the kitchen, opened the bread bag and found only 4 slices left – two of which were ends. No crisis there. I dropped my non-ends (early bird/worm) into the toaster, pushed down the lever, got out the butter and knife, and waited. I went over my plans for the day while I watched tiny wisps of steam escape from the bread.

I breathed in motes of nutty crustiness, and anticipated the triumphant extraction of golden-brown crispness. I heard the pop, and moved swiftly to remove the slices while they retained enough heat to melt the butter. I recoiled in horror as my fingertips grazed over the pale, raw landscape that marred what would have been the perfect start to the day. My bread hadn’t gone through the magical transformation into toast. The coils died somewhere between pushing the button and it popping back up.

It was prophetic. Today, I’m pseudo toast. Toast from a broken toaster. Broken toaster toast. A ghost of toast. I’m not real toast.