how does she know??

The bitch is psychotic, I mean psychic.  Fkn Emma Peel.  Somehow she calls exactly when I need her to.  It's starting to be a little creepy ffs.  :)

No migraine this time, yay!

But, I was down all day and just couldn't scrape it off of me.  I had a dance party with old school Adina and Missy E.  I talked to my brother for hours, which helped.  I had a bag of potato chips I had been saving for an emergency.  And they didn't even taste yummy.   So I ate liver and chicken hearts instead.  Why waste crappy, yummy food on flat taste buds?

No matter what I did, the funk just slithered right back over me.  I talked to several of my friends, many of whom made me smile.  I didn't mind talking to others who were in a bad way, but I felt guilty talking to any who were in a good mood.  In case I was contagious.  I'd feel even lower if I spread my melancholy soul.  Which is fkn ridiculous if you think about.  Non-depressive people can't catch it.  They can't conceive of the tar pit engulfing them.  And depressed people completely understand what it's like to have a fucked up day for no apparent reason.  And yet logic can't seem to get a word in edgewise.  Breathe, Wendy.

I keep thinking I'll be mostly okay for the holidays, but if it's hitting me this early, I might be in for a rude awakening.  Or maybe it has nothing to do with the holidays, and it was merely a bad day to be Wendy.  My eyes kept leaking.  No reason.  I mean various small reasons, but nothing that a resilient person would let faze them.  C'mon, Wendy.  You can do it.

Breathe.  Stop thinking.  Step outside of your brain.  Just breathe.  Smile.  And count your blessings.  Or chickens.  Just count something.  Because math makes sense when emotions don't.  I have a roof over my head, food in my belly, and several good people who love me.