I’ve had a really shitty couple of days. I wake up cranky, I drink too much coffee, my house is a disaster, I yell at my kids, and I’m behind on everything.
And I can’t say that I have any circumstances to blame this on. Yes, Bryan has been working a lot, and yes, we have some personal stress brewing on the back burner, but in all honesty I can’t really blame it on those things.
I’m just being one mean bitch about everything.
You know how it goes when you’re in this mood: every wrong twitch of an eyebrow, every hesitation in response, every nuance of tone triggers you into a rampage. “WHAT?! WHAT WAS THAT LOOK FOR?! WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM?! WHAT DID I DO NOW?!”
And the person with the twitchy eyebrow runs for his ever-lovin life.
To punctuate my irrational mood, a bookshelf just fell on me. Yes, a bookshelf. And yes, JUST. All the books fell on me, the shelf hit me on the shoulder, and the lamp broke its fall on my back. It’s not a very big bookshelf, and the lamp didn’t break, and there were only a couple dozen books to clean up, but still.
Even my house is conspiring against my foul mood.
I quit what I was doing and went straight to my computer to complain to all of you about my day being so crappy that even a bookshelf fell on me. And you know what? I’m giggling just a little bit right now, because it’s all so silly, and I’m so incredibly dramatic. And spoiled.
I think I would do well to turn on some lights in this cave, put on some Jesus-is-my-boyfriend music, and pop some vitamin-B pills.
Laughing – even if at yourself – really is the best medicine.