I'm a people watcher. I'm not quite sure why though, as typically, I don't like people.
I guess that's not entirely true. People on the whole are ok, it's their habits and idiosyncrasies that get me. I also have like, a million little pet peeves.
As an example, the other day I'm sitting at a red light, waiting patiently for my turn to go. There's a gentleman standing at the corner waiting impatiently for the man in the box to switch the signal from red hand, to walking green guy. He must have pushed the button a good dozen and a half times in rapid succession, like it made a difference. Why do people do that? Do they really believe there's a garden gnome sized man living in the light box who gets jolted with a mild dose of electricity every time the button is pushed? Bugs the hell out of me. Which of course begs the question, "Who has the bigger issue, me or him?" Of that, I'm totally aware.
Another thing that twists my panties are 4-way stops and people who don't know how to maneuver them. If you get to the intersection well ahead of me, please do not try and be courteous and wave me through. The stop sign system has worked for decades. Don't fix what ain't broken. I assure you, I can wait the 5 seconds it takes your clunkmobile to clear through, before I continue on my merry way.
That being said, I also cannot stand the asshats who refuse to actually stop. You know the ones. They are a car behind the one with the right of way, and rather than stop, they speed through on the bumper of the car preceeding them. These people you will find, are the same ones who turn left to cut you off, and then give you the finger if you beep the horn.
What I wouldn't give to have 5 minutes with their mother.
Since on the subject of driving, why is it that people still refuse to signal their intentions? It's not difficult, nor is it putting them off. The little doohickey that alerts the other drivers to your desire to turn is on the GOD DAMMED steering wheel. For your well being, and my mental health, please get in the habit of using it. And it doesn't count if you flick the bastard on as you start your turn. That's just being cheeky.
Pedestrians. Oh, how I admire you. Using your legs to get yourself around. Boldly darting in and out of traffic like you own the streets. Daring me to bowl you over. Word to the wise? Don't tempt fate, there are about 5 days a month I seriously consider bowling for boneheads. Vehicular vengeance. So let me ask you, do you feel lucky?
And crosswalks, they are there for a reason. For your safety. It's the walking man's turn signal. It's alerts us folks driving a ton of steel aimed directly at your vital organs what your intentions are. Here are a few simple rules to crossing. When you arrive at a lighted crosswalk, please don't assume that we see you and just step out. Contrary to the corner with the light signals, hitting the button here DOES help you. It bothers me that you can take some precautions for your well being, and then throw caution to the wind, and Mexican hat dance across the road with no regard to your own personal safety. If you don't care, why should I?
What bothers me more than those who cross at walks without first lighting it up, are those jaywalkers half a block away, darting out from between parked cars. YOU'RE A BLOCK AWAY FROM A CROSS WALK YOU LAZY ASS. The amount of time you spend waiting for a break in traffic, you could have stumbled over to the cross walk and played God. You are in control. So don't give me a look when I beep (God, I love my horn) at you. The road is my playground, and you're the cat pissing in the sandbox. Stop it.
On to the grocery store.
If you are in the produce section, and feel the urge to sneeze, by all means, please do. I'd hate for you to blow your eyes out of your sockets. But do me a favour. Cover your mouth and turn away from the grapes, mmmmmk? Gross!
And if you select something from the freezer section and change your mind, don't stuff it behind a box of cereal, you redneck hillbilly. Take it back to where it came from. What would your mother say?
Oh! And if you bring in an outside beverage, hey! That's ok. But come on people. Find a garbage when you're done. The ball bin at Superstore is not your personal trash receptacle. If my 7 year old knows better than that, and cleans your crap up, you should know. Don't blame your kid either, it was a coffee cup.
If you can't manage these simple acts of courtesy, please. Refrain from fornicating. I don't want to raise your babies too.
Speaking of babies. If you take them in public, control them. Not the wee ones per se, but the older, mobile versions. Don't allow them to tear up and down the aisles unwatched. They can hurt themselves, damage the store, and slam carts into the back of cranky old biddies legs. Cranky old biddies like me.
I was at the party store a while back and this woman was there with her 3 sons. Aged about 1 month, 4 years and 6 years. She left the newborn unattended in the cart and went meandering up and down aisles. The baby was nearly purple in the face from screaming, and her 2 older rugrats were wrecking havoc in the store. They tore things off shelves, broke strands of beads, donned themselves in pirate gear, and then shoved a fake pistol in the face of a sales associate and demanded all her money.
She handled it like a pro. "I think you need to go and see your mommy. NOW"
Meanwhile, mommy dearest is yelling from 5 rows over, telling them to quiet their brother down.
Lady, I hope when you squirted that last kid out, your reproductive organs came with it.
On a lighter note, my uncle is in town briefly, and we're going out to dinner as a family. Hilarious guy. Except yesterday while I was totally talking smack about Santa, I forgot how eerily similar he is in appearance to the jolly fat man. I hope I don't gross myself out thinking about it.
I bit the bullet last night and signed back up for meetings. My leader is so great, he remembered me instantly and gave me such a warm welcome. It was good to be home.
My name is Pegger, and I'm a fat loser.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Parody, Part 1
To the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies theme
Come listen to a story about weight loss,
About a poor chubby girl trying to show her fat who's boss
Then one day while surfing sites online
Saw an ad for weight watchers, and new it was a sign
At last, lose that belly
Well the first thing you know, that girl is tracking points
No longer dining in those nasty fast food joints
She said onderland is the place I oughtta be
So she jumped on her bike, to earn some AP
Activity points, that is
Sweat it off
6 months down the road, just look at where she's at
She counted all her calories, fiber and her fat
Now she can't believe she ever was that way
She's almost at her goal, and that's just where she'll stay.
Come listen to a story about weight loss,
About a poor chubby girl trying to show her fat who's boss
Then one day while surfing sites online
Saw an ad for weight watchers, and new it was a sign
At last, lose that belly
Well the first thing you know, that girl is tracking points
No longer dining in those nasty fast food joints
She said onderland is the place I oughtta be
So she jumped on her bike, to earn some AP
Activity points, that is
Sweat it off
6 months down the road, just look at where she's at
She counted all her calories, fiber and her fat
Now she can't believe she ever was that way
She's almost at her goal, and that's just where she'll stay.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Beware of flying scales
So Monday is my weigh in day. I actually look forward to it, as I've been an extremely good girl these past 5 weeks.
Last week left me with a wee bit of a sour taste in my mouth, with only a .4 loss. I chalked that up to TOM, and figured I'd be reaping the benefits of two weeks of wicked hard work come this morning.
The scale didn't budge. NOT A GOD DAMNED OUNCE. Maintained.
Now, I know that's better than a gain, but I've busted my flabby ass harder than I ever thought possible. I earned 38 AP's this week. I drank so much water, my organs learned to swim.
I ate so much produce, I pooped out fruit salad. I consumed my dairy. You may as well milk me, since I still feel like a cow.
I did everything right. I ate my AP's. I ate some of my flex. I ate healthy, I got active, and nothing.
I, to keep my sanity, am going to pretend it's muscle mass, from all the heavy lifting I did, and hang on until next week. However, if next week shows the same lack of results, steer clear of any bell towers in the peg, people. You've been warned.
Cheesecake is delicious
But I pass on that
If I don't lose the weight soon
I'm gonna take a knife to my fat.
And sell it on ebay. I bet someone will buy it.
Last week left me with a wee bit of a sour taste in my mouth, with only a .4 loss. I chalked that up to TOM, and figured I'd be reaping the benefits of two weeks of wicked hard work come this morning.
The scale didn't budge. NOT A GOD DAMNED OUNCE. Maintained.
Now, I know that's better than a gain, but I've busted my flabby ass harder than I ever thought possible. I earned 38 AP's this week. I drank so much water, my organs learned to swim.
I ate so much produce, I pooped out fruit salad. I consumed my dairy. You may as well milk me, since I still feel like a cow.
I did everything right. I ate my AP's. I ate some of my flex. I ate healthy, I got active, and nothing.
I, to keep my sanity, am going to pretend it's muscle mass, from all the heavy lifting I did, and hang on until next week. However, if next week shows the same lack of results, steer clear of any bell towers in the peg, people. You've been warned.
Cheesecake is delicious
But I pass on that
If I don't lose the weight soon
I'm gonna take a knife to my fat.
And sell it on ebay. I bet someone will buy it.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Fatty fatty two by four
I look in the mirror and what do I see?
But the fat chick mafia, staring back at me
With her hefty legs, and buns of butter
Jiggly tummy, and bat wings a flutter
Missing in action is the clavicle bone
I once looked like Wilma, now Fred Flintstone
With boobs at the belly button, and belly at the knees
And thighs that remind me of lumpy cottage cheese
Once the cheek bones were in hi definition
To find them again, is this matriarch's mission
My legs shall be tone, slender and lean
I'll rival the bar stars that are only eighteen
The reflection in the mirror I will fear no more
I'll shop at other than the plus sized store
My cankles will be banished, my chin will be but one
The fish belly skin will be exposed to the sun
I'll be able to look down, and see my glorious toes
I'd almost forgotten I was equipped with those
The waist line will wittle, the hiney will shrink
The navel will no longer appear to wink
So let me pass by the cheesecakes and creams
And allow me to stick with my workout regimes
I'll cut back on the vodka, the rye and the gin
The fat chick mafia just wants to be thin.
But the fat chick mafia, staring back at me
With her hefty legs, and buns of butter
Jiggly tummy, and bat wings a flutter
Missing in action is the clavicle bone
I once looked like Wilma, now Fred Flintstone
With boobs at the belly button, and belly at the knees
And thighs that remind me of lumpy cottage cheese
Once the cheek bones were in hi definition
To find them again, is this matriarch's mission
My legs shall be tone, slender and lean
I'll rival the bar stars that are only eighteen
The reflection in the mirror I will fear no more
I'll shop at other than the plus sized store
My cankles will be banished, my chin will be but one
The fish belly skin will be exposed to the sun
I'll be able to look down, and see my glorious toes
I'd almost forgotten I was equipped with those
The waist line will wittle, the hiney will shrink
The navel will no longer appear to wink
So let me pass by the cheesecakes and creams
And allow me to stick with my workout regimes
I'll cut back on the vodka, the rye and the gin
The fat chick mafia just wants to be thin.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Lady in Red
Things, and more specifically, my things tend to up and disappear. Vanish.
Like a thief in the night, they tiptoe quietly into the darkness, never to be seen again.
They leave no note, no forwarding address, no explanation. I'm left wondering if it's something I did. Something I said? Something the husband did? You see, he's the laundry lady in our home. Except he's not a lady.
I wonder if maybe he put them on the spin cycle, when they explicitly asked for gentle. Tumbled dry, instead of hanging. It could be anything.
One of these missing items was a beloved red bra. Gorgeous. Sexy. Sassy. She provided a great support system for me. We bonded almost instantly.
A little over 6 months ago, she left me. Gone without a trace. I was puzzled and distressed, and clearly confused. You see, I distinctly recall hanging her on the coat tree downstairs to dry. I went down there one day to retrieve her, and gone.
I asked the husband in the most shrill and hysterical tone I could muster, just where in the ever loving hell he put the god damned thing. I'm kind and patient and loving like that.
He professed his innocence. I didn't touch it, I swear, he says.
I tore the house apart. Top drawers, bottom drawers, his drawers. Nada. Closet space, empty space, myspace. Nothing.
Missing clothes is a sore spot between he and I. I fly off the handle often and viciously when things go missing. It may be my only personality flaw. I've mentioned it a number of times over the past few months, and he still plead innocent.
I've done a few more frantic searches, called in the dogs, pled on national tv for it's safe return. All turned up nothing.
So 2 months ago, I just wrote it off. I made peace with the lingerie Gods, and said a silent goodbye to my long lost friend.
Fast forward to this morning. I'm flipping madly through my closet looking for a specific belt. The belts usually hang on the first hanger in the closet, but today, it wasn't there.
So I painstakingly sort each article of clothing, looking long and hard for this belt. I brush past this black windbreaker that hasn't been worn in a dog's age, when something catches my eye.
I quickly yank the windbreaker out of the closet, and what is stuck to the velcro of the collar?
MY RED BRA.
You see, the windbreaker at one point in time hung on the coat tree downstairs, and when the darling hubby brought it upstairs I guess the bra stuck to the collar.
I just have one question, husband. How the hell did you not notice the black on red contrast? Enquiring minds want to know :)
However, I happily rejoiced, discarded the pink partner in crime bra, and quickly fastened Ms. Red.
Fit like a second skin.
The hole in my heart has been filled.
Like a thief in the night, they tiptoe quietly into the darkness, never to be seen again.
They leave no note, no forwarding address, no explanation. I'm left wondering if it's something I did. Something I said? Something the husband did? You see, he's the laundry lady in our home. Except he's not a lady.
I wonder if maybe he put them on the spin cycle, when they explicitly asked for gentle. Tumbled dry, instead of hanging. It could be anything.
One of these missing items was a beloved red bra. Gorgeous. Sexy. Sassy. She provided a great support system for me. We bonded almost instantly.
A little over 6 months ago, she left me. Gone without a trace. I was puzzled and distressed, and clearly confused. You see, I distinctly recall hanging her on the coat tree downstairs to dry. I went down there one day to retrieve her, and gone.
I asked the husband in the most shrill and hysterical tone I could muster, just where in the ever loving hell he put the god damned thing. I'm kind and patient and loving like that.
He professed his innocence. I didn't touch it, I swear, he says.
I tore the house apart. Top drawers, bottom drawers, his drawers. Nada. Closet space, empty space, myspace. Nothing.
Missing clothes is a sore spot between he and I. I fly off the handle often and viciously when things go missing. It may be my only personality flaw. I've mentioned it a number of times over the past few months, and he still plead innocent.
I've done a few more frantic searches, called in the dogs, pled on national tv for it's safe return. All turned up nothing.
So 2 months ago, I just wrote it off. I made peace with the lingerie Gods, and said a silent goodbye to my long lost friend.
Fast forward to this morning. I'm flipping madly through my closet looking for a specific belt. The belts usually hang on the first hanger in the closet, but today, it wasn't there.
So I painstakingly sort each article of clothing, looking long and hard for this belt. I brush past this black windbreaker that hasn't been worn in a dog's age, when something catches my eye.
I quickly yank the windbreaker out of the closet, and what is stuck to the velcro of the collar?
MY RED BRA.
You see, the windbreaker at one point in time hung on the coat tree downstairs, and when the darling hubby brought it upstairs I guess the bra stuck to the collar.
I just have one question, husband. How the hell did you not notice the black on red contrast? Enquiring minds want to know :)
However, I happily rejoiced, discarded the pink partner in crime bra, and quickly fastened Ms. Red.
Fit like a second skin.
The hole in my heart has been filled.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Life in the day of a fat chick
I am a matriarch. A matriarch of the fat chick mafia. Population: Me.
I haven't always struggled with my weight. It wasn't until I was about 20 years old that I started actively collecting pounds. What can I say? I'm a pack rat.
At 22 I was fed up with myself, and dedicated myself to fitness. I lost over 60 pounds using weight watchers, and a weekly regimine of 5 workouts a week. I loved it.
Somewhere along the lines I got lazy. Those 60 pounds found me, and brought their annoying friends along with them. At least 35 friends. Ok, who am I kidding. Unwelcome, unwanted, and uninvited. The rudeness is astounding, I know. The nerve!
So I took a good long look at myself in the mirror. Front back and side to side. I look like one of those rap guys girlfriends. Oh my God, Becky. Look at her butt! It is SO BIG. That's me, right there.
So I started my new healthy lifestyle journey. I've lost 7.4 pounds as of this Monday. 4 weeks, not too bad. Especially considering TOM, the asshole, made me retain ridiculous amounts of fluid Monday. Next Monday will be great.
I still have about well, lots of weight to lose. I signed up with a new gym on May 24th, where they happily went about measureing my bust, waist, hips, upper arms, and *gasp* THUNDER THIGHS. Talk about getting up close and personal. My word. I'm looking forward to June 24th, as they'll reweigh and measure me again. I'll post the inches lost in a most gloating fashion that day. Can you stand the excitement? Me either.
So, this fat chick wakes up in the morning, and automatically starts concocting meals in her head, counting points all the way along. Hi ho, Hi ho, to the kitchen I must go. No grease or fat, forget about that, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!
Breakfast usually consists (excuse me for a moment, I think God is wringing my ovaries out with his bare hands. My Lord, what did we women do to deserve this?) Anyway, breakfast usually consists of some sort of egg whites delight. and a side of fruit or vegetables. One of my favourites is 5 egg whites scrambled, and poured into a non stick pan. Cook it like you would an omelette and add 1 oz of shredded tex mex cheese. Remove from pan and top with a dollop of sour cream and salsa. Serve with steamed asparagus. SO GOOD.
I get to work around 9, where I promptly start grazing on 2-3 cups of fruit. Pineapple, grapes, watermelon. Eat it slow, takes until almost lunch where I have a salad of some sort. (Again, watch those points). I feel like a cow, and now I'm eating like one. Graze and greens. Ever wonder why cows are so fat? Seriously. How the hell does that happen?
Mid afternoon is often where the sabotage occurs (before I managed to be 30 days OP!). Now I curb the hunger with an apple and peanut butter, and start thinking about dinner. All I do is think about food. Not what I can't have, or rather, shouldn't have, but what I will have and cannot wait to have.
At various points throughout the day, I mumble to myself about the weight around my middle, and it keeps me going. Keeps me motivated. I still don't see the really heavy me in the mirror. But that Fat Chick Mafia Matriarch makes herself known in photographs. She screams in them. She claims she can be twice the woman in half the size. We shall see.
I'm currently striving towards the 15 pound pedicure. When I've lost 15 pound that is, I'm taking my feet for a french delight treat. Woo hoo! I'd like to be at 10% by no later than August, and I'm striving to be down around 50 come my birthday. I'll reward myself with some contact lenses.
On the upside, I'm wearing a pair of capris that I couldn't have wedged myself into in the spring, even with the aid of lube and a pry bar. Bathing in crisco was not going to help the situation. I kid you not. And that's an awful visual, I apologise for the traumatic mental diagram, but try living it folks. TRY LIVING IT.
I've been wearing a pair of cargo pants that didn't fit in the spring either, so that's another bonus. Not bad for only 7 pounds gone.
An update on the husband. He went to the gym today! He read the blog yesterday, and feared for a feathered beating, and off he went. Make sure to congratulate him, as I know he's lurky louing around. He's sneaky like that. Spy like. *cue Mission Impossible music* Hi husband!
So, that's a day in the life of this fat chick. At least half a day. Keep your eyes glued to this space. Recipes and ridiculous antecdotes are sure to be aplenty.
Tah!
I haven't always struggled with my weight. It wasn't until I was about 20 years old that I started actively collecting pounds. What can I say? I'm a pack rat.
At 22 I was fed up with myself, and dedicated myself to fitness. I lost over 60 pounds using weight watchers, and a weekly regimine of 5 workouts a week. I loved it.
Somewhere along the lines I got lazy. Those 60 pounds found me, and brought their annoying friends along with them. At least 35 friends. Ok, who am I kidding. Unwelcome, unwanted, and uninvited. The rudeness is astounding, I know. The nerve!
So I took a good long look at myself in the mirror. Front back and side to side. I look like one of those rap guys girlfriends. Oh my God, Becky. Look at her butt! It is SO BIG. That's me, right there.
So I started my new healthy lifestyle journey. I've lost 7.4 pounds as of this Monday. 4 weeks, not too bad. Especially considering TOM, the asshole, made me retain ridiculous amounts of fluid Monday. Next Monday will be great.
I still have about well, lots of weight to lose. I signed up with a new gym on May 24th, where they happily went about measureing my bust, waist, hips, upper arms, and *gasp* THUNDER THIGHS. Talk about getting up close and personal. My word. I'm looking forward to June 24th, as they'll reweigh and measure me again. I'll post the inches lost in a most gloating fashion that day. Can you stand the excitement? Me either.
So, this fat chick wakes up in the morning, and automatically starts concocting meals in her head, counting points all the way along. Hi ho, Hi ho, to the kitchen I must go. No grease or fat, forget about that, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho!
Breakfast usually consists (excuse me for a moment, I think God is wringing my ovaries out with his bare hands. My Lord, what did we women do to deserve this?) Anyway, breakfast usually consists of some sort of egg whites delight. and a side of fruit or vegetables. One of my favourites is 5 egg whites scrambled, and poured into a non stick pan. Cook it like you would an omelette and add 1 oz of shredded tex mex cheese. Remove from pan and top with a dollop of sour cream and salsa. Serve with steamed asparagus. SO GOOD.
I get to work around 9, where I promptly start grazing on 2-3 cups of fruit. Pineapple, grapes, watermelon. Eat it slow, takes until almost lunch where I have a salad of some sort. (Again, watch those points). I feel like a cow, and now I'm eating like one. Graze and greens. Ever wonder why cows are so fat? Seriously. How the hell does that happen?
Mid afternoon is often where the sabotage occurs (before I managed to be 30 days OP!). Now I curb the hunger with an apple and peanut butter, and start thinking about dinner. All I do is think about food. Not what I can't have, or rather, shouldn't have, but what I will have and cannot wait to have.
At various points throughout the day, I mumble to myself about the weight around my middle, and it keeps me going. Keeps me motivated. I still don't see the really heavy me in the mirror. But that Fat Chick Mafia Matriarch makes herself known in photographs. She screams in them. She claims she can be twice the woman in half the size. We shall see.
I'm currently striving towards the 15 pound pedicure. When I've lost 15 pound that is, I'm taking my feet for a french delight treat. Woo hoo! I'd like to be at 10% by no later than August, and I'm striving to be down around 50 come my birthday. I'll reward myself with some contact lenses.
On the upside, I'm wearing a pair of capris that I couldn't have wedged myself into in the spring, even with the aid of lube and a pry bar. Bathing in crisco was not going to help the situation. I kid you not. And that's an awful visual, I apologise for the traumatic mental diagram, but try living it folks. TRY LIVING IT.
I've been wearing a pair of cargo pants that didn't fit in the spring either, so that's another bonus. Not bad for only 7 pounds gone.
An update on the husband. He went to the gym today! He read the blog yesterday, and feared for a feathered beating, and off he went. Make sure to congratulate him, as I know he's lurky louing around. He's sneaky like that. Spy like. *cue Mission Impossible music* Hi husband!
So, that's a day in the life of this fat chick. At least half a day. Keep your eyes glued to this space. Recipes and ridiculous antecdotes are sure to be aplenty.
Tah!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
This one's about rock'n'roll, and comic books and bubble gum
My bladder wakes me up mere seconds before the alarm starts chirping from across the room. I slowly open one eye, and try to focus on the glowing numbers. 5:45?! I mumble incoherently at the husband, and he takes the tone to be threatening. And he's right. I have no qualms with being woken up at the ungodly hour, on the condition that he actually hauls his hiney out of bed, and goes to the gym.
Instead, 3 days a week for the past 6 months finds me being woken up before the rooster would even find acceptable, while the clod quickly fumbles for the off button, often times missing and switching the noise from the soothing radio, to a war cry that is not of this earth. There's nothing like the sounds of a siren to get you out of bed in a hurry. He wonders why I growl.
So here I am, 20 minutes later, exhausted, needing to get moving while the oaf is still in bed. Snoring. Snoring!
I will tell him lovingly when he gets up this morning that there are times while he is sleeping, that I prop myself up on one elbow, and I just watch him. I'll then inform him, that it takes everything I have not to put a pillow over his head and beat him senseless.
That might be me talking, the lack of sleep, TOM or a harmonious combination of the 3.
I'm going to learn to play the bugle. That will show him.
Off to the shower. Shampooing will create a diversion for my hands, and keep them from harming the man.
Until lunch...
Instead, 3 days a week for the past 6 months finds me being woken up before the rooster would even find acceptable, while the clod quickly fumbles for the off button, often times missing and switching the noise from the soothing radio, to a war cry that is not of this earth. There's nothing like the sounds of a siren to get you out of bed in a hurry. He wonders why I growl.
So here I am, 20 minutes later, exhausted, needing to get moving while the oaf is still in bed. Snoring. Snoring!
I will tell him lovingly when he gets up this morning that there are times while he is sleeping, that I prop myself up on one elbow, and I just watch him. I'll then inform him, that it takes everything I have not to put a pillow over his head and beat him senseless.
That might be me talking, the lack of sleep, TOM or a harmonious combination of the 3.
I'm going to learn to play the bugle. That will show him.
Off to the shower. Shampooing will create a diversion for my hands, and keep them from harming the man.
Until lunch...
Monday, June 12, 2006
Day One
So I've set up a new blog, a place for me to jot my most private thoughts. Just me, my monitor, and random faceless strangers from God knows where.
Hi strangers.
I'll start complaining for reals tomorrow. This font is pretty.
Good night
Hi strangers.
I'll start complaining for reals tomorrow. This font is pretty.
Good night
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