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2002-02-13 - 12:41 p.m.

Thursday I have a lunch date with my pals Peachy and Feng. We have all recently become enamored of the phenomenon that is online journaling, so probably after a nice chat about our journals/blogs we'll scurry home to our respective computers to type up entries about having lunch. Heh.

Well, I probably will, anyway. Because I am a dork like that. Sometimes late at night, half asleep, I think of these great entries. Really. Tomes of wondrous essays float through my head and I think - yes! - tomorrow I will stun myself with the sheer penetrating sagacity of my words. And then I wake up and go back to only using .02% of my brain and I can only write about cat fur, or whatever.

Oh, and Thursday? Is Valentine's Day, if you've missed the 90 skillion billion various media reminders. I feel vaguely guilty about Valentine's Day. I mean, JB and I are planning to have a nice dinner at home, there will probably be a nice exchange of homeade cards, and that's just perfect - and yet I feel as though I should be adorning the house with heart-themed décor. You know? Because Fred Meyers and Pottery Barn and Living magazine are all FULL of heart-shaped crap right now, shaming me with my non-romantic-home self. I seriously have an inner Martha Stewart that has been oppressed all my life by a lack of creativity and a conflicting sense of reason. She's clamoring "Let me out! You could TOTALLY make your house look like that one room in Moulin Rouge! Using only twigs and gold leaf!"

I am seriously the ultimate sucker consumer, the market that gets all gooey for scented candles. I think if you buy scented candles, you are automatically in the target demographic that will ALSO buy such completely pointless things as: Swiffer mops, Ab Rollers, clumping cat litter, whitening toothpaste, and overpriced shampoo. Or… maybe it's just me.


Today, my arms are killing me. I dragged my sorry self to kickboxing class yesterday and the instructor had us do "Armageddon." That's where he makes the class stick their arms up in the air, like we're all part of some weird aerobics holdup ("Gimme all your water bottles NOW!"). Then we lower them slightly or raise them slightly on his command. This is fine at first. Then, ow. Then, OW. Then, holy god I cannot do this any more oh please stop OW OW OW. It sucks. Everyone has their face screwed into a rictus of agony, sweat rolling, and Mr. Muscles just smiles serenely and says stuff like "Is it starting to buuurrrrn?"

See, if I would just go to that class on a regular basis, I would be all proudly holding my Linda Hamilton-triceps in the air, sneering at the flabby wimps who have to drop their arms halfway through. But nooooo. Sadly, it is I that is the wimp, currently.

I have to go get sand kicked in my face now.

go back ::: forward

Did you want to read about:

2002-02-12 - freaky tea, hiking
2002-02-11 - Mondays, library fees
2002-02-08 - a falsehood

ARTIFACT: Ab roller, shamefully covered in dust.
a sucker is I

0 comments so far.

I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004

yay, diaryland