Last night I dreamt I was in some amazing Old World European country where I had to climb over the roofs of buildings and move this huge block of cement in order to shimmy into this dark cavern that led to the best party I'd ever been to.
Don't be jealous of my imagination.
So, that was pretty cool. But during the dream, I got drunk. Like really, really, rip-roaring drunk. Off whiskey sours. Is it even possible to get that drunk off whiskey sours??? Anywho... I was drunker than I've ever come anywhere close to being in real life (which really wouldn't be that difficult seeing as how I've only ever been drunk like twice in my life). And that would have been cool too, except that when I woke up my first thoughts were getting that drunk sounds like a really good idea. I wish I could get that drunk right now.
That scared me.
Then I went and weighed myself and I had gained an additional 2.5lbs from the 1lb I gained last week, putting me up from my low of 189 back to 192.5 and I didn't even have the capacity to be upset. I just laughed because WHAT THE FUCK. Even though I do yoga regularly and I just ran somewhere near a 12 minute mile (a whole mile! Without stopping!) for the first time, I still gained weight. But I just didn't have it in me to be upset about it.
That concerned me.
And I had this job interview that I think (thought?) went well, so I sent them my references and a writing sample two weeks ago at their request, and then I got a call from the firm on Monday saying that my information had mistakenly not been sent to the hiring partner and he wouldn't have a chance to look at it until Thursday. Which means he probably won't make a decision until next week. Which means my Christmas wish for a job won't come true, and I'll have to return this gorgeous dress I bought (being confident that I would have a job in the near future... that was probably a really dumb move) in order to pay my bills.
Not so much fun.
The other day I decided I needed to stop watching Lifetime/Oxygen/ABC Family Christmas romance movies because they all have happy endings and I'm currently living through a demonstrably non-happy ending, especially in regards to my completely, utterly, not even a little bit existent love life. Same goes for romance books, which if you know me, is basically like me telling you I'm going to start hanging around with rich, White, conservatives for fun. Shit makes no sense. And yet, I'm actually gonna stop. The book I previewed on Amazon last night about vaginas and other gynecological concerns (google pelvic prolapse. Please.) was pretty interesting. So, with all that said...
I think I'm depressed.