I Remember When...

A long night of rocking had more to do with mood altering substances than it did a baby and a chair.

A croc was something I professed to be full of shit, not, in fact, full of my feet. And yes. I wear crocs. Daily. It's a little sad. But they're so DAMN COMFY!

I anticipated Daylight Savings for the extra hour at the bar. Moreso than the extra hour of sleep.

To go out before 10PM was unthinkable. Now, to go out past 10PM means Zee can't sleep so we're taking her for a drive. Admittedly, that hasn't happened in a couple of months. Thank goddess.

Being in debt meant I owed my friend $20 bucks. For maybe a green leafy substance she gave me in good faith. Or a few beers he bought me. Now being in debt means doctor bills out the wazoo and $800,000 in mortgages.

I used to be a decent, if not at least timely, blogger.

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In other news, I'm a little bit of a liar. I've always proclaimed my life to be an open book. Well, it's not really. Not all of it. I think you guys know that, deep down. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm still in search of my Queen of Oversharing tiara. I think I admit to things other people maybe, probably don't even admit to themselves. But there are some things, many things, that I don't share. Personal shit. And I'm going through some right now. And it's consuming my mind. I'm worrying. A lot. And it's proving very unproductive on the writing front. Because I'm not inclined to share it.

I mean, I still adore little Zee, and Z-Boy and I still make fun of each other at every turn, and things are mostly okay.

I'm just, well, I was reticent to have one rental home. And now we have two...

And work is kind of kicking my ass...

And lack of sleep is wearing me thin...

And, and, and...

Speaking of thin, I weigh 135. I haven't weighed 135 since I got married. Three and a half years ago. When I got pregnant with Zee, I weighed 153. Now, that might sound a little like bragging. But it's really not. It's more a testament to the fact that I am stressed. And tired. And maybe not eating the best. To be eighteen pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight already seems a little excessive. Not that I'm complaining. Or, maybe I am.

Well, lather, rinse, repeat.

How many times do ya'll think I can post the same thing only using different words?

I can't tell you how many times I've considered coming here and posting "The End." And then some, because you all deserve better than for me to just leave you hanging like that. It's like, I want to keep this door open, but I feel kind of like an asshole leaving it open and completely fucking ignoring it.

I just don't know what the next step is.

Erm. Why don't we end on a happier note, shall we?

I remember when...

My favorite joke was...

Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?

Because it was dead.

Now, my favorite joke is...

What has nine arms and sucks?

Def Lepard.

Badum-bum.