Antibiotics. My dear doctor (well, actually her secretary) called me last night to say yes, I did have strep and I needed to take antibiotics. Well I'm better, I don't want to. So I call up and say do I still have to? She says yes since I might get rheumatic fever and die. Yeah, right. And if I hadn't gone in the first place and didn't know would I still be about to die? Anyway, I'll probably take them just so I don't infect my poor kiddies if it isn't too late, but then she says, you're not allergic to penicillin, are you? Ah, YES. Doesn't anyone even read my file? It should be easy in the new computerized world, no? Sheesh. I think I'm more likely to die by going to the doctor than not.
The freaking Unoriginal Hat. I have knit this THREE times, and I still think I need to rip out this version. The second version, two strand of rust and one of white with a grey streak looked AWFUL - kind of like it was already dirty- so that didn't make it far. The third version, three strands of rust (we shall not discuss the chaos created by unravelling three strands of wool over and over) was fine but I am knitting like a constipated crone - I couldn't even get the stitches off the cable and back in the needle it was so tight. Sheesh - It's not even much bigger than the first one so I think its gotta go too. Mind you, I have the pattern memorized now.
My indecision and the fact that I think I'm going to make a very poor choice when the time comes. My justification is that people ask each other out all the time - why does it have to be a federal affair? So he says no - how bad can it be?
Yeah yeah, pick yourself up of the floor. I know it will traumatize me beyond belief and I will slink around like a kicked puppy for weeks, annoying everyone I know.
My job, which is a boring hellhole. Why are some people so able to find pleasure (or at least some degree of satisfaction in what they do? I wish. I feel like I'm just marking time until someone discovers just how little they need me and I'll be out on my arse.
The weather. It's March and there is still feet of snow on the ground. Nuff said.
OK, this is totally naval gazing and of no interest to anyone but myself but still. This is the modern equivalent of dear diary. Get bent.
Version 1
By any stretch of the impossible, would you like to go out with me some time? Out out. Like grown-ups. Not lunch in the cafeteria.
I'm sure there are a thousand good reason why you shouldn't, but I don't care about those - all I want to know is if you'd LIKE to. If not, please let me know so I can commence the process of feeling totally humiliated and stupid - and rightly deserved. I have a highly overactive imagination. Just send me an email saying NO and we shall speak no more of this. You thought I avoided you before...
If you might contemplate this with any degree of enthusiasm, call me 867-5309 and we can discuss further.
Version 2:
Would you like to go out with me sometime?
Yes - call me 867-5309
No - send me an email. All you have to say is no.
Being the yappy bitch I am, I'd lean towards A. but that's now. Things'll change in an hour, I'm sure.
No comments needed on the lunacy of even contemplating this. I am well aware.
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