There’s No Food in the House

Very sparingly do I go food shopping. When I do it’s just a flash of me running around Market Basket at 8:57pm on a Wednesday and shoving frozen, microwaveable green beans into my Cynthia Rowley (Marshall’s, amiright?) roll-y bag. The green beans are my vegetable source and Pepe’s 99-cent cheese ravioli is my super source of protein. For fruits I smell my Red Apple Wreath Yankee Candle. I’m sure there are plenty more food groups but I choose not to acknowledge them in fear that I’m either significantly malnourished and horrifically overindulgent depending on which group we examine.

My current status is hot chocolate which only comes after the five pieces of toast and three cups of vegetable soup I slaved over (it was prepackaged but I added the tomato sauce [we didn’t have stewed or diced] and stirred it lovingly).

I also took a shower for the first time in three days. Nothing perks a woman up like the sound of her Irish Spring body wash spurting onto her questionably old loofah. I’m sure there’s a replacement date suggested on the tag but it’s still the same color as when I bought it (I imagine). The shower was a couple hours ago and I still haven’t lotioned any crevice of my body. I’m typing and skin flakes are flurrying around my keyboard as my dry knuckles hammer up and down. If I lived in one of those allergy protection bubbles, I’d make a real killing on my side act as human snow globe. Très dramatic as I’m listening to the king of depression, Bobby Vinton. Real Lifetime movie material. WOO.

Anyways, time to go straighten my hair. I can smell my 450 degree flat iron burning into my dresser. The scent of old burning hair really helps me sleep at night.

OKAY GOODNIGHT 143

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