It's official....

To all outward appearances, I may resemble a normal (ish?) 27-year-old woman. Maybe a little on the edge, what with the piercings and tattoos and stuff. A little kicky. A little wild. A little... sumthin' sumthin'.... (suggestive eyebrow wiggle).


Lies. All lies. You see, as it turns out, emotionally speaking, I am actually a 67-year-old woman named Ida, who collects those ghastly little fat kid figurines and has a poster of a wretched looking kitten with the caption, "Hang on there, baby, Friday's coming!" (note: I actually am very fond of the name Ida. This is the only thing keeping me from the abyss.)


Frick. Frickity frick frick frick.


I don't even know how or when it happened. One day, I'm feeling relatively "hip", "with it", and the next....


I'm watching freakin' ballroom dancing with bated breath, while frantically humming Frank Sinatra along with the quick-step performance. And it was really, really good! Frick. And I mean, really, really good.
Oh yeah, and I also passed up M&Ms in favour of pumpkin seeds. Pumpkin seeds, people! Next thing, it will be prunes.
And another thing? I'm wearin' my glasses right now. That's right! Even though I look better with my contacts, I know that long term wearing can result in a higher risk of eye disease and various other complaints.
I'm so f**king screwed.
On a completely different tack, for a moment, (before I return to wallowing in my own delicious self-pity) I have endeared myself immeasurably to my colleagues at work. At about 4:00, I pushed back from my desk, cursed out my computer, and then announced my intention to my fellow cubicle minion. "Yo Sandra*(*not her real name). I'm on a quest for chocolate. You want anything?" Sandra was doin' good, so after making inquiries of the other ladies, I embarked on my quest. And I make it to the upstairs hallway connecting the Cancer Centre and the main hospital. Unbeknownst to me, apparently this hallway, for the brief time I needed a fatty, sugary snack, had become, "The Hallway of Supermodels with little tiny butts and size zero jeans. (I mean really, who the hell makes size zero jeans? It's not even logical!)" Now I am by no means fat (as long as you don't ask my dad, who by many accounts is kind of an idiot/expert when it comes to destroying people's self esteems). But I am tallish and half English, which means that even if I suddenly lost, oh, let's say 50 pounds, my skeletal structure would still not fit into anything remotely approaching a size zero (hiss). It's the Viking, I'm told. Or the milkman. I was never really clear which.
But I digress. Anyway, I successfully navigated "The Hallway of Supermodels with little tiny butts and size zero jeans", and made it to the canteen to purchase... A jumbo box of Junior Mints. 'Cause they're low-fat, right? Right? But still delicious. I have made the perfect choice, ha ha ha ha. Unfortunately, I still had to navigate said "Supermodel/tiny butt/size zero" hallway with a huge box of chocolate. Yeah, I know they're looking at me. Judging me. Thinking, "Fat". Of course, that would be if their poor, glucose-starved brains were able to form a coherent thought other than, "So... hungry..." (Look at me, I'm Judge Judgington!) I made it back, doled out the Junior Mints, and relayed my story to Sandra. She made the appropriate noises (haha... aww...of course you're not fat! Awww...haha), and we got into a discussion about healthy eating. This is where I think I endeared myself the most. "Sandra," I said, "you know that little voice in the back of your head, that quiet voice that says, 'hey, how about some carrot sticks instead of those Junior Mints? Or celery? Yummy!' It was screaming at me while I navigated that hallway. And you want to know something invaluable... Something I learned during this emotional journey?" "What?" Sandra asked. "Sometimes you gotta punch that voice right in the mouth and say, 'Not now, bitch! I'm eatin' Junior Mints!'"
I may have made her spray coffee on her computer. I don't know. Information Systems doesn't know. I'm not saying either way.
Back to self pity mode again for one moment. Anybody got a surefire method of fixing a piercing infection? My navel is spewing pus like one of those soft-serve Milky Dame "ice cream" fountains. Oh, and no wise-ass stuff like, "Take the piercing out, stupid.", because this baby is staying in, damn it.