I’m feeling funky.
Not like, “Check me out, I’m fabulous!” funky, either. More like “GOD, STOP LOOKING AT ME!” kind of funky.
And nothing’s wrong. There is no crisis. There’s only a small and insignificant string of minor annoyances and my inability to cope with them without feeling like I’m having the everlovin’ crap irritated out of me. (And, apparently, my inability to write a sentence that isn’t awkward. Sorry about that.)
This too shall pass, but in the meantime, I’m a real joy to be around.
Seriously, do you want to know how bad it is right now?
It’s so bad that I bought myself some shoes today—boots, to be exact, and you KNOW how I loves me some fancy boots—and after my usual deal-hunting and coupon utilization and such, I got them for about half off; and they are sweeeeeeet; and it DIDN’T CHEER ME UP.
That’s bad, people. I’m a little afraid.
Anyway, I’m going to go try a large dose of family togetherness to get over myself. That will probably help. Or result in a huge debacle. But I’m hoping for the former.
I need something to shake myself out of this, but I’m not sure what. A blow to the head? A pedicure? A solitary soak in the tub until I turn into a prune? Stealing from the children’s Halloween candy? (That was last week. Not helpful.) Endless episodes of CSI:Miami with Otto? (Wait, we tried that last night. Didn’t help.) A V8?
Do you have a sure-fire method for breaking out of a funk?
Hey, wait a minute. Maybe this is my mid-life crisis! Damn, if so, it’s way less fun than I thought it would be. Also, I have no desire for either a tattoo or a boob job, so clearly I’m doing it wrong.