I've been having to write a lot lately. The floodgates of freelancing have officially blown wide open. My poor little fingers are getting a work out (if only the butt growing on my stomach could get in on that action). I'm also a little sleep deprived. And if you know me at all, if I don't get at least 8 hours in... I turn into an ogre. Literally. I'm green, smelly, and I have some crap-tastic breath.
I start my nanny job next week, so these are my last few days of freedom from small infants who cannot communicate what they want. (But MAN are they cute.) Yet, here I sit on my bo-honkus. Typing away. I've also been on hold with Fandago for the past twenty-five minutes. Good lord, they need new music. This Edward Scissorhands techno crap ain't cutting the mustard. Being on hold is just the cherry on my already delightful afternoon of sitting in my PJs looking like a homeless troll. Fandago charged Grahm and I three times when we bought our Hunger Games tickets Sunday evening. That was one expensive movie-going experience. (Did anyone else come home with their husbands and discuss strategies for staying alive in the Hunger Games? We basically argued for thirty minutes on game plan. I'd win because I'm scrappy. And small. And just incredibly good looking. Okay, okay... I'd be the first to die.)
Forgive me for rambling. I should be trying to put a dent in the 2,000 words I need finished by tonight, but I'm not. I put the PRO in procrastination. Instead I wanted to grace my blog with my crank-o-saurus mood. (You're welcome.) The sun is shining, but my pasty, flabby skin is trapped indoors staring at a computer. Just like yesterday. And the day before.
Okay, I'm done being a sad sack. I'm going to go eat my feelings... except that we have no junk food in the house, and I'm not fit to be seen by other living things. This is the pits. Speaking of which, I should go shave mine.