Slacking in F Minor

I swore I wouldn’t do it, but I should know by now that the fastest route to anywhere I don’t want to go is to sweartogodorwhateverisholy that I’m never going there again, ever. Doesn’t matter where there is, say those magic words and I’m on the express train.

I find myself once again struggling with the obligation to update my diary with the details of A Life Un-Interesting a mere month after climbing onto my soapbox in a private entry about how this diary is for me and me alone. Every time I click over here, I see that date at the top of my contents box, and the further it gets from the one on my computer’s system clock, the guiltier I feel.

I could gripe, as I do that very well and never run out of raw material, but I just did that last entry. (Again I can hear that insistent little voice reminding me it’s my diary and I can write what I want. You little fucker, if you’re the same voice that yelled at me about the cookies, I will find you and smush you if it’s the last thing I do.) I should finish the Boyfriend Chronicles, but I’ve run into a little logistical issue that needs to be sorted before I can proceed. I ought to just give in and let my diary turn into one big Bitchfest, complete with a graphic disclaimer for the front page. Time and again I discover I’m at my most colorful when I’m pissy or pissed off or feeling pissed on. God, I love to bitch, I really, really do.

Missy Pissy, indeed.

I managed to maintain my tradition of getting mostly nothing accomplished this whole weekend, with a few marked exceptions. Usually I eat nothing but junk I purchased on the way home from work on Friday, but I actually marinated and grilled a few chicken breasts to offset my steady weekend diet of PopTarts and Doritos. I also read a book, more or less against my will. I found Terry Pratchett’s Small Gods too much like Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, both in voice and plot. All the characters kept hopping into each other’s storylines without warning, and as I got more confused I found myself less interested in how the story ended. This is my second unsuccessful attempt to fall for Mr. Pratchett, and I doubt I’ll go for a third. I have Douglas Adams and Neil Gaiman to attend my intermittent sci-fi cravings.

I gave myself half a pedicure last night. I got through an hour and a half of buffing, filing, polish-removing, moisturizing and exfoliating before I got too bored to finish. Nobody sees my feet outside the locker room anyway, now that I’ve given Tom the boot. This logic would technically work as an excuse not to shave my legs either, but the sensation of sleeping with a gorilla is beginning to disturb my rest.

I fully intended to boycott Thanksgiving this year, but I caved under the pressure of acquiring a new dining room set and having a stray sibling within driving distance. Fortunately it’s the younger one, so after a highly informal meal of whatever we feel like eating, we will sit around the living room getting drunk, cracking nonsense jokes and watching the stupidest of what cable TV has to offer. Good times.