Nonsequitur Life

I can never seem to spell San Francisco correctly on the first try. At least not without staring at it for several, perplexing moments because it never looks like an actual word.

Today’s Friday right?

I never know what the hell day it is without checking a calendar several times a day. It’s been a really bad week for keeping track of that.

It’s been…a week…this week. Meaning: not a good one in terms of my mental health. A lot of unidentifiable stress and anxiety. A lot of wanting to stab people in the face for being fucking stupid. A lot of DEAR GOD I NEED SLEEP, BUT I CAN’T FUCKING SLEEP. It could all be prelude to Hell Week. I’m hoping that’s all it is. But it’s a little on the extreme side even for me.

Though maybe not for unmedicated me.

My attention span has been even shittier than usual too. I can barely read more than a paragraph or two without feeling like my brain is going to implode from trying too hard to concentrate. Even mindless games of solitaire are proving to require too much focus.

It’s probably a good thing I never got out the door to go see my mom this week. The drive alone would have killed me.

FEH.

FEH, I say.

In other news…the dress I ordered finally showed up. I tried it on and HOLY CRAP IT FIT. You know, as long as I stuff my gut into my trusty waistnipper.

I was leery of the empire waist factor because even sickly, boney waifs tend to look pregnant in an empire waist dress, but it doesn’t look too empire-y when it’s actually on. Now I need a new bra to wear with it. Because the last two strapless bras I’ve had have been absolute failures. I had a good one that got mangled in the underwire. (The price I pay for machine wash/tumble drying all my bras. I’m not hand washing a damn thing please and thank you. If it’s not machine washable, it’s not worth having.) The next one poked me in the armpit to the extent of leaving a mark for two weeks. The one to replace that did not support my giant jugs enough to hold them up even close to where they’re supposed to be.

Big boobs are OVERRATED.

Also bras are way too effing expensive.

And underwires are a product of the DEVIL HIMSELF.

But when I put the dress on and looked in the mirror, I was actually surprised I liked what I saw. Ghastly white bat wings and all. I didn’t look ginormous, or pregnant and when I walked out into the loft Bob did a double take and said, “Oooh.”

Hanging on the door, it looks really short. But I am really effing short so it hits right about the knee. It’s also a “petite” so it’s made to fit short folk.

Not bad for twenty bucks AND machine washable.

Maybe when I get a proper bra I’ll take a picture of me actually wearing it. Granted I put it on, on a day my hair doesn’t look like I haven’t showered in days, despite having just taken a shower. This short hair business with almost no curl is just a hot mess.

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Save Me San Francisco Train