Guilt Trips

My sister says to me a couple of weeks ago (via email), "This is how I feel when I check your blog and you haven't updated it."

Your blog is bad and you should feel bad.

My sister is kind of a dick.  Sometimes.  Other times she's kind of awesome.  It's a mixed bag, really. 

November ended with more of a fizzle than a bang.  There was a lot of snot involved.  I single-handedly kept Kleenex in business.  (That is an exaggeration.)  I tried and cooked yummy foods and then, BAM!  Sinus infection.  Did not enjoy.  December rolled around and... where the frak did it go?!

(I want you to know, people, I am resisting the urge to insert a gif of something running here -- as in December flew by.

...

0.o

Oh.  Perhaps I should have been looking for a flying gif.  Anyway.  Gifs are a amazing, but I don't want to over-gif.  Of course, I only update this blog about once a month these days, so there is clearly no fear of "over"doing much of anything.

Instead here is a picture I drew of someone (representing December) running by.  I spent a lot of time on it.)

I laughed so hard while drawing this, his/her/its right hand ended up a little swoopy.
Yeah, that's right.  I laugh at my own jokes.  Alone in my apartment.
Deal with it.

There's really not much to recap for December.  I was meant to be dancing and while I did dance, it wasn't an every day thing.  I took a salsa class (so fun!) and played a few rounds of Dance Central on the old XBox and I even went out in the world dancing (with boys!).  It was fun, but life has a tendency to muck up the works and I didn't dance as much as I had planned.

I fucking love dancing though.  Seriously.  I am not a great dancer.  I'm very, very white and I don't have rhythm and dancing with boys is fun but it always takes me a minute to get down with what they're doing, but ... fuck.  I love it.  I smile like a goon the entire time and like the honey badger, I don't give a shit.  It makes me happy and that's good enough for me.

Carlton just gets me.

He really does get me.

Smashed Assholes

So I'm sick, right?  Got some sort of plague (again).  I get it.  I'm probably not looking my best right now, but I swear to, like, something really powerful -- like a really big chainsaw -- that if one more person at work says something along the lines of, "Wow.  You don't look so good."  Or, "You look like you're going down for the count."  I'm going punch them in the vagina.  Even if they don't have one.

I GET IT!

When I first got to work this morning I was greeted with, "You sound awful, but you look nice."  DID YOU HEAR THAT, OTHER CO-WORKERS?  Either you say something nice or you say nothing at all!  (...no vagina punching for that guy.)

Since I haven't been able to taste anything since Sunday night-ish, my challenge to TASTE ALL THINGS is going by the wayside.  It happens.  I tried.  I don't have the energy to shop or cook or eat anything but carbs.  I don't really move much more than necessary or try make myself look presentable (apparently).  I'll have to eat more things in December.  I don't see that being much of a problem.  Food, good.

It's 8:00.  The very minute the clock strikes 8:30, I am taking two NyQuil and going to bed.

NyQuil. ♥

P.S.  I promise I won't turn this into a Blog of GIFS.  It's a passing attraction.  It will, uhh, pass.

Balls

I am thankful for wine.  Mostly because I am drinking it right now.  I am also thankful for balls.  I had bunch in my mouth yesterday.  Been a while since I had balls in my mouth.  Stuffed in my mouth.  My balls also had sausage.

I can fit so many balls in here!

Tsk.  Not *those* kind of balls.  Get your dirty minds out of the gutter.  Stuffing balls.  Sausage stuffing balls.  For Thanksgiving.  I started with this:

Tube o' meat.  Appetizing.

And then I added a bunch of other stuffing-related ingredients (I should start a cooking blog).  The end result is supposed to be something along these lines:

Balls all up in my mouth.

Mine were shoved in the back corner of the oven because nobody cared about my Heather-friendly, sausage-laden balls, so they turned out more like hockey pucks than scrumptious, springy, chewy balls, but that didn't keep me from eating about 17 of them.  (I was able to eat so many because nobody else would touch my balls.  Sigh.)  I even had one with breakfast.  And another for lunch.  What can I say?  I love balls.  They're fun and delicious.

And now I want to go for a 5-mile run.

I don't run.

It's about 3ish in the afternoon and I've been trying to work since about 10 this morning.  No, true story.  I had a plan and everything.  It morphed into I WANT TO GET DRUNK, but even before that, my attempts at work-related activities were going something like this:

I am bad at working on the "weekends".

Good intentions, man.  Good intentions.  I was going to map the shit out of some maps.  And now my afternoon is pretty much this:

Just swap the limo for the couch in mom's basement and the pizza with balls
and add a TV playing "Fringe" re-runs.

It's hot as fuck in this basement, FYI, so I wish I was in a limo right now with the windows down, wind blowing through my very, very long short-ish hair (that I just cut again on Tuesday - I'm giving up on that whole "growing it out" thing.  Fuck hair.  Who needs a ponytail when one owns 14 baseball caps?)  I feel like a hot, disgusting, stuffed turkey, so I just downloaded a workout video and as soon as I am full of less wine, I'm going to workout like WHOA.  (... probably not too much 'whoa' because I am a little drunk and full of balls.  I'll take a little 'whoa' over no 'whoa' at all.)

P.S.  I <3 GIFS.