(no subject)
I got up this morning. I felt awesome, which was weird after the 5+ vodka tonics (word to henriette) and shots I consumed in under 4 hours the night previous. I showered, clipped coupons, got a ride to my car (never drink and drive, kids), and then spent the rest of the day assembling my final project for About Photo.
I took a couple breaks to snack. Sat on the couch flipping between Miami Ink and Intervention. I still haven't decided on which part of my body I'd like permanent artwork (besides the one I want on my hand), and I still can't stand people who refuse to admit they have a fucking problem.
The funny thing about Intervention is that at the end, when the addict is pretty much pushed into saying "yes" to treatment, the entire family jumps up and goes "yay" and they hug and cry and get so happy. So I just sit on the couch and nod my head. "Yeah," I think. "It won't last. Those fleeting moments of happiness you just felt...you're just high on anticipation and expectations."
I've never understood that expression "you've made you bed, now lie in it." Who the hell lays down in a bed they just made? And I'm still confused about "lie" versus "lay" and "who" versus "whom," and sometimes I think I should e-mail Dr. Dave and ask him to explain it to me again.
Expectations are nothing more than premeditated resentments. Everyone needs to remember that. If you remember that, you can significantly reduce your amount of disappointments.
I also caught a Dog the Bounty Hunter chase. I think I would love that job. Minus the financial stress of fuckers jumping bail, I would love that adrenaline rush. Not much gets my heart pumping anymore. Not anything, really. No situations, no person, no music, movie, or book. And I like that last serial comma. It makes me feel good.
I read Henri's MySpace blog. I wish the e-mails I keep receiving would stop, too. Permanently. 'Cause every time I think it's over, it starts again. Like I live in fucking tornado alley and keep wondering why my house keeps getting wrecked. So I made a promise to my therapist, and I think of her every time I break it.
Whatever. I can't be good all the time. Then I wouldn't be me.
love, deirdre
I took a couple breaks to snack. Sat on the couch flipping between Miami Ink and Intervention. I still haven't decided on which part of my body I'd like permanent artwork (besides the one I want on my hand), and I still can't stand people who refuse to admit they have a fucking problem.
The funny thing about Intervention is that at the end, when the addict is pretty much pushed into saying "yes" to treatment, the entire family jumps up and goes "yay" and they hug and cry and get so happy. So I just sit on the couch and nod my head. "Yeah," I think. "It won't last. Those fleeting moments of happiness you just felt...you're just high on anticipation and expectations."
I've never understood that expression "you've made you bed, now lie in it." Who the hell lays down in a bed they just made? And I'm still confused about "lie" versus "lay" and "who" versus "whom," and sometimes I think I should e-mail Dr. Dave and ask him to explain it to me again.
Expectations are nothing more than premeditated resentments. Everyone needs to remember that. If you remember that, you can significantly reduce your amount of disappointments.
I also caught a Dog the Bounty Hunter chase. I think I would love that job. Minus the financial stress of fuckers jumping bail, I would love that adrenaline rush. Not much gets my heart pumping anymore. Not anything, really. No situations, no person, no music, movie, or book. And I like that last serial comma. It makes me feel good.
I read Henri's MySpace blog. I wish the e-mails I keep receiving would stop, too. Permanently. 'Cause every time I think it's over, it starts again. Like I live in fucking tornado alley and keep wondering why my house keeps getting wrecked. So I made a promise to my therapist, and I think of her every time I break it.
Whatever. I can't be good all the time. Then I wouldn't be me.
love, deirdre