Inspire me...

Sittin' Indian style on the stained couch on a Saturday night. Belly full of bacon and peanut butter and somehow I feel nothing. Not even outrage at the lack of outrage at the use of 'Indian style.'  The dull pangs of what may be depression or a pelvic infection are really making it difficult to dig in and find that spark to write the next great masterpiece. I use 'masterpiece' very loosely. Like so loose, I really mean 'spelled almost completely correctly.' The setting is perfect to let it all hang out, and yet I 'm rushing to finish this blog post because We Are the Millers is coming on HBO. Jennifer Aniston trumps life. 

Little bit of junk in the...

As much as I'd like to blame the polar vortex and poor lighting for my recent and quite epic outbreak of cellulite...I really think the daily Big Mac's and Heath Bar's are gonna have to take some blame here.
I haven't strolled naked past the full length mirror in months. I ain't stupid, I know what kinda pale, floppy mess has been brewin' under these Old Navy sweatpants.
But I sure made that mistake today. 
Once I got past the 4 stages of grief; outrage, self-loathing, laughter, an urgent need to pee - I took my dimpled ass to the gym.  Which leads me to following questions:
Where was everyone? Isn't this the time of year that everybody's making life changes with their resolutions?
Where did all that back fat come from? I could feel it bounce during my one-minute sprint bursts on the treadmill.
And thirdly - Why the fuck am I talking about this?

I'm mad as hell...

Not really mad at all. 2014 is following through with it's promise not to be as shitty as 2013.
Yes, I'm a frazzled mess with female adult acne and spent the morning watching The Joy Luck Club and googling on-air suicides. But, dammit, I feel good.