Hi. I’m drunk. Sorry, but that’s just the way it’s gotta be until next Wednesday. Which is the day I board my plane to New York.
I tried to hard to vlog today because I’m pretty much unable to write, think, drive, eat, sleep these days and I really wanted you to see the depths of my depravity with your own eyes. I know I’ve said it countless times, but I’m undergoing a very anxious time right now, and it’s super turbo disruptive to my psyche and general personature. I couldn’t figure out vlogging by the way, which comes out in my head as “vee-log” — a sure indicator that my vlogging would be technically deficient. Also, I’m so sure you’re major sick of my flying phobia. But to keep everything on the up and up, I’ve just gotta share my freak-outedness. Because seriously, it’s overtaking everything. Sad, huh? Let’s not even discuss how I should get over it already. I’m really trying here, and above all, I’m resting on the fact that I’m going to be 40 soon, and life is way too short for me to not travel due to fear. So I’m going, but I’m about to crap my pants.
Anyway, I’m going to twit/tweet/twat my panic attack as I board my flight, so prepare to unfollow me or wish you’d never met me or whatever it is people do when they’re sick to death of hearing someone talk about the same thing over and over and over again.
Not helping matters is that my head is shrinking. For your information, my head has always run small. As has The Rock’s, which really sucks for our kids, whose skull circumferences measure below the 25th percentile of all humans everywhere. Due to my shrunken head, hats look weird on me, as do sunglasses and most clothes. So after spending an inordinate amount of time looking for a coat to bring to New York that won’t make me look like a weeble wobble head, I was quite disappointed to come home from shopping yesterday and have The Rock point out that my head disappeared amidst the new jacket’s lapels. That blew, because guess what? I’m not taking it back. I try so hard to be stylish, people. Why my head gotta ruin it for me?
In addition, my four-year-old daughter is getting way too smart for me. She says things like, “Mom, don’t talk right now. Your stories are so simple.” (I SWEAR TO GOD she said something along these lines. I can’t recall the exact verbiage, but “simple” was in there.) My anxiety and Toots’ wisecracks do not a good mix make, so I think I replied with something like, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Or another simple but robust outburst like that.
In other headline news, there is not enough Advil in the world for the hangovers I’m about to have this week. I know I have a small head, but still.
P.S. The Rock offered to proofread this post because I’m high on Chardonnay. Can you believe the gall? San Diego Momma is fines! She’s just freaking fines, and don’t needs no high and mighty proofreader. Dammit.
P.S. Why do all the Real Housewives of Atlanta look like trannies? I find this befuddling.
P.P.S. I already found 59 typos, but I corrected them, so The Rock will never know. Unless you tell him, you cheeky monkeys.