Again?

How
Old
Am
I?

Goodness gracious. I saw 17 again and Zac Efron might as well have been a Backstreet Boy, and I might as well have been 10 years old because golly-gosh, I was swooning. I haven't swooned that hard and with that little mercy in a long time. It's a good thing John is in NY, I'm telling you that.

Tomorrow I work, and then have my first Gymnastics Class. Suffice it to say that at the very least I am mortified. I don't know what to wear, or if I will be strong enough, or if my feet will be killing me from work.

My boss has been breaking my heart lately. I feel like I always have to walk on eggshells around her. Nothing I do is good enough. She doesn't understand that she opened a coffee shop, it's her passion, what she loves, but to her employees, it's a job. It's a great job, a job I generally look forward to, but would I rather sleep in, in the arms of my wonderful boyfriend then wake up after not enough sleep and go to work where I am afraid if I do one thing wrong, I will be picked on (honest to God, she will make snotty, snide remarks)?

Yes. I would rather just have money, and not have to work. I would rather be a clown, or in a circus, or in a play, or a Neo-Futurist. I would rather not be mocked for being honest.

But... I digress...

On to better, less unfortunate things:

I am a cat lady in training. This is Pouncer and I in our synchronized cuddling act.





I'm a weirdo.