Ohmigod I'm exhausted! After last weekend and working all week and a day of schmoozing and clapping, I could nap for a year. But I won't be. I leave tomorrow for San Francisco. It's a quick trip for work and I come home late Sunday. I haven't even started packing yet. Blerg.
But I adore San Francisco. It's so lovely there. I'm sure the fog (even though it's supposed to be sunny, if chilly) will melt away any lingering stress. I need to it. I haven't slept well all week and my head is throbbing.
I had a little relapse last night. Took a bath. Played some Andrew Belle. And then promptly bawled my eyes out. And I had been doing so well.
Not that I want to complain, mind you (I do, I really, really do), but I can't help myself. I'm so tired that I can't hold the cranky in anymore. I feel lonely and beat down and I want someone to hold my face and tell me I'm perfect just the way I am.
Or maybe I just need a fabulous man who wears glitter and pleather to tell me I look fierce and take me dancing. Maybe San Fran will make it better after all. Or shopping. I could spend my savings in Union Square. I'd be broke, but I'd look fantastic.
On the upside, I'm making tilapia with a green olive tapenade for dinner and it is smelling fantastical. Now I really wish I had some alkeehol in my house so I could get the motivation to pack.
If someone would send a half-naked gorgeous single man who reads Proust and Faulkner to my hotel room in SF, I'd be your bee eff eff 4 evah! I'm not kidding. Yes, yes I am. No wait, no I'm not. Nope. Not kidding, Maybe I'm kidding. Maybe just a little. Nope, please send him. I'd like him on my bed when I arrive. That is all.
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