My mom reads this, so, like, when I post something that's not Let Me Tell You About My Perfect Life, she calls and asks if I'm okay and sounds dubious when I insist that I am.
I am fine! I go to work! I pay my bills! I go home! I bake! I run! I read! I socialize! I go to yoga, for lord's sake! I am a Healthy Normal American Santa Barbarian Girl!
I'm well aware of my problems. I'm at least 20 pounds overweight (the scale my mom bought me broke and I refuse to experience that singular pleasure in public). I'm working three dead-end jobs that are starting to get on my nerves. I keep kicking people out of my life for no discernible reason. And there's the whole sporadic crying jags that've been popping up every so often.
There's this thing that I like to say, which is that life is hard, even when it's not. There are good days, and there are bad days, and there are easy days, and there are challenging days, and there are also a whole lot of nothing days.
And anyway, I'm off to run to the beach in the rain before I make a double chocolate stout cake to bring to a work-mandated scotch tasting.