I just ate half a can of Pringles (WHY IS THERE A WIKIPEDIA ENTRY FOR PRINGLES? I was, however, intrigued to learn of the ‘Consomme’ and ‘Devil Hot’ varieties.)

This is a) not good for me, I realize, BUT b) happens to be the indulgence I credit with settling my hormonally induced nausea and my dizzy head. I have no proof to back up this contention. But I’m sticking to it in a last-ditch effort to justify the amount of sodium I just consumed.

In other anutritional news… (I just invented a word! Like ‘amoral’ or ‘apathetic’, I’m using ‘anutritional’ to designate foods unconcerned with their own nutritional value… unlike soy, which just beats you over the head with healing powers. I’m so tired of hearing about soy like it was the cotton candy-flavoured cure for cancer. Anyway, if this word already exists, don’t tell me. Did I mention hormone-addled?)

I am now craving Cheese Whiz on celery. I don’t even like Cheese Whiz. I DO like celery, but I think it’s only supposed to be served with hot wings and blue cheese dip. Correct me if I’m wrong.

I’m listening to Pachelbel’s Canon in an effort to calm myself, but all it’s doing is making me think of weddings. My co-worker informed me that she has a recording where they’ve inserted wave sounds into the piece. Now, every time she hears it, all she wants to do is pee.

I think that would make for a hell of a good wedding prank.

I’ve switched to Doobie Brothers: ‘What a Fool Believes.’ Now, have you ever heard more happy keyboards on a sad song? It’s totally confusing to process the lyrics within the bouncy framework of the melody… which is, actually, exactly how I’m feeling right now. If Morrissey wrote a song with ABBA, that would be the personification of my current flow of thought.

I was going to roast a chicken for my dinner, but then I realized I didn’t have a roasting pan. How sad is that? 33 and no roasting pan. I don’t know why I’m hanging my hat on the absence of culinary equipment as an indicator of delayed personal development, but it just seems like I should be able to roast by now. I know I’ve roasted before. How did I do it? Did I own one before? Did I lose it in my divorce? Wait, was I ever divorced? Was he a nice guy? Should I have given it another chance?

Not if the bastard took my roaster, I shouldn’t. He was always so selfish. And not just in the kitchen, nudge nudge.

I feel like lying down and napping for the rest of the decade. It’s not really practical, though, because one still needs to eat and work and pay rent and obsess about Apple products, right? You can’t just shut down. Besides, I can’t nap to save my life.

(Well, okay… maybe to save my life. But if someone was holding a gun to your head, could you really drift off? I’d think you’d be kind of afraid to close your eyes or snuggle in or think nice thoughts about Paul Bettany. “You mean if I nap, you won’t kill me? Alright then, where’s my Vellux blanket and my white noise machine? I want to live!”)

I guess I will just make it through the evening and maybe go to bed at a reasonable time like a reasonable girl. Either that, or (as per my usual habit) I will discover I feel better by 8 pm and proceed to stay up another four hours just to revel in the magic of normalcy.

I wish there was a way to combine doing laundry and getting a pedicure and eating sushi and falling in love and swimming into a single act. Because that would be an even better way to spend four hours. One can only revel so much in their normalcy before they start to seem weird or Ohioan.

And on that note… I have to go get groceries. How are you?