I’m not done… Signed, Cranky Pants

It’s fucking hot.

The too-tight clothes stick

to the squishy parts.

Is that a poem?

The hair I’m trying to grow (why?  why try to grown hair after a certain age?) is damp and frizzy and doesn’t look good in a ponytail (long-waisted AND weird shaped head) and the bangs are not quite long enough to be held back.  Bangs are a constant hassle…at least mine are…so I’m trying to get rid of them.  I know that won’t last long, however, because then my forehead wrinkles will be on display.

I have to go to an outdoor party this afternoon.

I know; boo hoo.  Yes, it’s a party – wine, good food, lake, people I work with, but OUTSIDE?

Did I mention that it’s FUCKING hot?  (That’s about 97 degrees to people without a potty mouth.)

My daughter is coming to stay the weekend in my tiny apartment…That’s good…but the bf is banished…he can’t help feeling jealous…and who knows what kind of mind fuckery her dad will have in store for her…and I will be on call to anticipate this interaction and pick up the pieces as best I can.  She deserves one reliable parent.

Do I need medication?

Is this what’s going on here?

Am I an ungrateful a-hole about my single lifestyle and party-going obligations?

Is that what’s going on here?

I just know one thing, whatever’s going on…

It’s FUCKING hot.




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