Nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years

First David Bowie takes our livestock, and now our entitlement programs? Bless him. If he can give the gift of swagger to the world and all its little Timberlakes and Biebers, he is allowed a measly check on the first of the month. I hope he is enjoying a lovely party with lots of “Sexty-five” balloons.

I have had a taxing week, which caused me to completely fail to post every day. How does that work? For some reason, I am now a professional meeting attendee. This would be fine, except I have no time to actually DO work. I just talk about doing work, then tell other people to do the work. Then I listen to wrathful music on my commute home, bolt some food if there is any prepared already, throw as many substances in my body as I can, and then it’s off to dream land, or more likely staring into the dark replaying irrelevant interactions. Like, yeah, I should have told that person to fuck herself, but live and learn. There’s always next time.

Then yesterday was an exhausting maelstrom of salon appointments and trips to Barneys, because who can get everything done in a single go-round? I think I also got Starbucks. And there was a real touch and go moment when I thought I had lost my sunnies, but they were already on! Haha!

Today I had a meltdown at the prospect of trying on bathing suits. Why is life so cruel? I die.

And tomorrow? I will attend work in a physical sense, but likely not a mental one. It will be like the opposite of astral projection.

I will dye the child’s hair raspberry red, as per her request. I will tear into a Zappos order and start a shame spiral and vow to live in nothing but caftans for the rest of my days. I still need to ruthlessly analyze my successes and failures of 2011. I give 10 points to House of Vomitola because I remained alive. But I must subtract 5 because of that whole Ryan Gosling thing. Another 5 for inconsistent skin care regimens. Another 5 down for recovering from anorexia. Oh, I can’t win for losing.

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