I find that every decision I make is inevitably an opportunity cost—sleep an hour less to hang out with you-may-kill-me-now-because-this-IS-as-good-as-it-gets good looking boy (ok, four hours less), basket-case, nap. No bah-logging, bah-rain-storming, no work, no work-out, no friend time, no home cooked fabulousity. Nadda. Damn gurl. You’re a shit show. But he did tell me I am the sexiest thing he’s ever seen so… justsayin’. And this is opposed to my ex who actively debates whether concrete or 40 Bond takes the blue ribbon award on sexiness—oh architects, you are fucking nuts.

NOT. ENOUGH. HOURS. IN. THE. DAY. Miss my balance. And yet this debauchery has become habit. Conclusion? I am being ruled by short-term gratification.

Take today for example— I finished a bottle of champagne before 2:00pm. Good idea? Wellllll… let’s just say that I am writing this with one eye open at a time. Pause, change primary vision source. And back. And again. But in my defense, this girl done needed it. Furniture/boxes arrived from Cambridge today. There is now more M handwriting in this house is healthy (read, tolerable). And I want to take the chunkiest fucking black permanent marker and scribble IT. OUT. Furiously, deeply inhaling the fumes, getting high on the surge of agency. And the delusion that black-out will make it all better, faster.

Missed Sunday Potluck today AND THAT’S MY SHIT. My happy juice. Instead cooked ramen with broccoli (phah). Actually ate a whole head of broccoli, or two, and discovered, indeed(!), there is such thing as too much of a good thing. Also carried boxes of hoodies, curlers, VHS movies, up and down the stairs. Wobbly in the legs, taking long, teary gulps of Cooks Extra Dry (cuz I’m class-c like that) with Peach Orange Nectar (deese combo, by the way).

Missed my hike yesterday because I feared the sudden urge to squat on the dirt path, pulling my elbows into my belly, raisining my eyelids, and start screaming. Yep, I might have just randomly started screaming—vehemently calling back to myself what he took and what I chose to leave in Cambridge. Come the fuck back, Jodi Dey. I need you.

My list of TO-DO items now far exceeds what could possibly be captured on the usual yellow sticky note. I am so behind in work I don’t even want to wake up tomorrow. (Or maybe I don’t want to wake up because I know it’ll still hurt like a bitch). And what do I do about this? I do what every normal high-functioning basket-case does: I drink champagne on Sunday. I hang out with Mr. James Dean Junior as much as my conscience will allow it (and maybe a tiny bit more), I go out and eat out and giggle at funny smelling people on Pearl (going to hell, duh), and experiment to see how much broccoli I have to eat before I start getting FAT.

But here is where I give myself a motha f-ing break. I AM DOING THE BEST I CAN. Really, I am. I AM DOING THE VERY BEST I CAN. And we all have our Sunday “fun” days. Right? Today was just mine. And tomorrow is Monday. And I will begin again.