Not the princess of Genovia. (Why on earth would you make up a country, anyway? Much as I love Anne Hathaway, The Princess Diaries would have been so much better if they threw in a badass swordfight or had Princess Mia saving the world from an invasion of bodysnatching robots. But then again, what wouldn’t be improved by those things?)
I have been doing that thing where I get sucked into life junque. Memorial Day was lovely. I participated in the annual ritual sacrifice of gnawing on pig rib cages, driving long stakes through the hearts of various vegetables, and indulging in large amounts of salads that contain neither vegetables nor anything resembling health. It was lovely. However, upon my return to reality (and thus, work — ugh), I had an encounter with my scale which left me rather scarred and frightened, although it did give me an explanation for those size 13 shorts I had to buy.
I’m not one to fuss too much about weight. As long as I feel good, I’m fine. But that’s the thing — lately I’m sluggish, lazy, and sleep-deprived. So I’ve decided to do something about it, which has left me a bit behind in the writing world.
Fear not, gentle viewers. More writing is afoot. I’ve spent a whopping 266 minutes this week on the elliptical exercising and shaking my booty (why treadmill those pounds when you can dance them off? I mean, really) just to ensure that my booty doesn’t end up causing shaking when it passes. That would be bad. And not nearly as cool as a boobquake. Although according to my boyfriend, his coworkers regularly comment on my bootyliciosity. I’m a bit perplexed by that and ever-so-slightly unnerved. I don’t know if I want to be known for my rear endy parts. At least it’s a term of approval.
Okay, my bum aside. I really will get back to writing and away from these meandering digressions. Do you see what the imminent onset of summer break does to me? Look at me, I’m molting. (Not really.)