My brand new printer is not working. I don't know know why or where the problem is, I don't know how to fix it, and frighteningly, I'm having wierd horror visions of not being able to fix it. This will anger me if I let it.
I got on the scale this morning. I don't want to talk about it. My discipline was obviously thrown out with the used up Christmas wrapping.
A couple of my cousins were supposed to come over tonight so that we could indulge in a little Godfather trilogy, and maybe get our mafia-esque on. But, as it's the Christmas season, it is imperative that I go sit in the kitchens of older relatives to stare blankly and talk about my career plans and why I don't have a boyfriend yet. I will eat too many cookies, drink coffee at an hour when I shouldn't, and most probably say something that will scandalize/offend/irritate someone at the table.
I got on the scale this morning. I don't want to talk about it.
My hair is going through it's typical two-weeks-into-a-haircut stage, and is refusing to behave in the manner in which it should. The problem here is that New Year's Eve is four nights away. Four nights I have, in which to train hair that's just been cut and yet is still too long to be properly and attractively flippy and shampoo-commercially and most important, serve as a major distraction from the size of my arse, which is quickly taking over the house.
I got on the scale this morning. I don't want to talk about it.
Happy Saturday, poppets. May good hair be with you.
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