I think I was depressed
. I have been operating on about four hours of sleep a night instead of the requisite 10-14 hrs. I think I just wanted it all to go away and when I spoke to my manager today, I was wearing jeans I haven't fit into for nine months and I just breezed them right on this morning without knowing they were the Joe's jeans I WISHED I fit into and could not throw away. My manager called it boyfriend fat. Yay. So apparently the 41 lbs. I gained just went straight to my knockers.
Good news on the smoking front: for anyone who is on the fence about quitting, I have seen photographic evidence that I now look less like Harry Dean Stanton, although I still like to remove my pores via airbrush.
I think in LA, people are not worried about emphysema, low birth weight, and heart disease. The non-smoking campaigns should be focused solely on the aging/collapsing implications. Get sets of twins, one who smokes and one who doesn't and follow them over the years. Then you could have some catchy jingle like the Doublemint Girls about being foxy and getting more booty because you're not withered and stinky. I know I'd go for it, and those jingles, Man, they just get into your head.
So I guess I was too complicated for Dad's Bags because I called him to ask him when he was picking me up and he said he had planned on calling me in an hour to cancel because he was hawking meat in Dana Point and some deal was falling through and he was stuck in traffic. I actually said, “I'm so sorry you're having a bad day,” instead of, “You bloody well should have told me you had to cancel the instant you knew so I could make other plans!” But I actually was sorry he was having a bad day because cute people shouldn't suffer. Also, I already had two other sets of conflicting plans- I don't know if it was just in case or if I cosmically jinxed the whole thing, (The Secret, The Secret,) but I do have a fun night ahead of me.
I met up with my dad this morning for breakfast and a swim, but I kickboarded because I'm lazy and had just washed my hair and also was giving my legs one last chance for Coachella shorts. My Dad brought a magazine cover with me on it and Holy Bejesus! I look like a gnarled munchkin with eyes the size of raisinettes. I only wish in the article I'd been squeezed into the pink Osh Kosh B'Gosh to make the picture complete. Also two people have called me to say that I bashed or ignored them in the article, which according to me merely makes me out to be spoiled, yet poor, boring white trash. This was not the interview by my new best friend, but some heinous woman who was condescending to my father for being spiritual.
The National Lampoon team adores me, supposedly, so I have that going for me, although the director is convinced I'm not a teenager, and whadda ya know? I'm not.
Cleaned my car which was a real mess. Couldn't decide whether the suspicious looking brown splotches on the carpet were actually vomit, and if so, how the hell did they get there?
Just finished “Veronika Decides to Die.” If you ever feel like your life is routine, get through the first 133 pages and then thank me.