My car tried to pull a hard and fast one over on me.  Nice try, asshole, but you aren’t getting any of my hard-earned money.  I can’t wait until I have a big girl job so I can buy a new car that won’t try to kill me on a regular basis.  So, if you happen to have one of those that you’re looking to give away, I know someone who’d happily snatch that shit up.

I made it my mission in life to get whitegirlwasted last night.  I don’t know what that means really, but I read it on the internet and I like saying it.  For me it apparently means climbing on top of a refrigerator and letting friends draw mongeese on you.

You thought I was joking.

The plural of mongoose is mongooses, which I think is dumb.  Getting whitegirlwasted also means that you have to dip hot cheetos in ranch dressing.  Or you could just do that sober because it tastes like sex and unicorn glitter rainbows.  Unless you have some kind of issue with being a disgusting fatty.  I, obviously, do not.

I spent last weekend knocking on death’s door, begging to be let in and hacking up/leaking mucus.  That was a good time.  The worst part of RA treatment (and there are many terrible parts) is that you’re pretty much screwed when cold/flu season rolls around.  I was basically sick from January through March last year.  First bronchitis, then the flu, then the flu again, and then bronchitis again.  It was a sweet 3 months.

I got a trainer for my bike so I can ride it inside when the outside is terrible.  That will pretty much ensure that I never actually take my bike outside again.

It also means that I have a giant obstacle in the middle of my tiny living room because putting it away every day seems like a lot of effort.  Also, this way I can just hop on for random, short bursts of exercise.  Go ahead and pretend that my apartment isn’t disgusting.

I’m really proud of myself because I’ve successfully kept myself from repeating any of this madness in the new year:

Look at them crazy, busted-up albino legs.  And what an awkward pose/angle.  I promise I don’t have Yoda legs.  They aren’t normal human sized, but they’re at least longer than my arms.  My thighs are about as ginormous as they seem and those bruises were much worse in real life.  Alcohol is not always your friend.  Oh, New Year’s Eve Eve.  Perhaps the worst day ever.

I have a job interview this week.  Pray I get it so I can resume my hobby of baking deliciousness/steadily increasing my cellulite population.  Also because I figured out that my company didn’t withhold federal taxes for approximately 60% of the year.  Um, thanks, assholes.  Nothing like having to pay hundreds of dollars in taxes when you’re only working part-time and can’t afford to buy ramen.

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