If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

Which is precisely why I haven't blogged in, like, 13 years. Nothing I have to say is very nice these days. And I can't exactly use this medium to complain because, well, people read it.

And nothing exciting happens anymore. The Cats? Got boring. Except for that one time the other morning when Harley decided it was quite acceptable to shat on the living floor. Although I suppose if I had to perform my duties in a litter box, I'd rather crap on the floor, too. Because I'm not as regular about cleaning up after them as I should be because, dangit, sometimes I just don't want to clean. Not at all. Especially after stinky cats and boys who shave their faces on the bathroom sink.

Gas prices are ludicrous. I can't afford driving 106 miles per day just to make it to a job that usually, on most days, makes me want to bang my face into a concrete slab. I get home from work each day at about 5:30 p.m., if I'm lucky, and spend two hours per day on my commute. I have no time for a second job, which would alleviate this problem. Last night I rounded up a stack of DVDs to exchange for money at the Exclusive Company, which will probably provide me with enough gas money to get me to a baby shower tomorrow. But on the way back? I'm walking. I get paid in one week, and I've already spent $5.76 of the paycheck. And there is nothing I can do about it, save for take up plasma donation or hooking. And continue to spend a paycheck I don't even have yet.

And if I blew my money on bars or new shoes or clothes I won't wear, or, Hell, anything, it'd be one thing. But I don't buy things. I don't have fun. Please note I have on a pair of pants I've had for four years that have a broken button, a worn-out shirt and flip flops, because I can't afford to buy "work-appropriate" shoes, like we're supposed to wear. I drop the occasional dollar on a running race or two, but I want to. It's the one thing I do. But I'm in trouble when I need a new pair of running shoes.

I like to run. It is my therapy. And it's free, so, hey, cool! Running with Courtney gives me a chance to A) sweat, a lot, mostly from places like my arms and legs, which I understand is completely grody, but whatever; B) talk! We talk and talk and talk and talk about weddings and planning and periods and aches and pains and gripes and more gripes and even more gripes; C) enjoy the weather, which is highly underrated. There is nothing I hate more than hiding indoors on a beautiful day, which, perhaps you haven't noticed, it has been FOR WEEKS; D) burn off energy. I sit on my ass all day. Except for the occasional trip to my mailbox or printer. Or sometimes when I get to actually leave the office. I don't want to sit anymore. I want to burn off my energy, and subsequently feel better. And healthy. And toned. And it's better than smoking or growing marijuana in my spare bedroom or cutting myself or kicking dogs, so I run. I like it. And when I'm 60? I might have sore legs or need a knee replacement, but it's better than having a heart attack. I can get new legs. But I can't get a new heart.

And I realize maybe I'm preaching to the choir, but you know what? It's my blog. I can say what I want. And if I want to pout and kick and scream, I will pout and kick and scream. Because that makes me feel better, too.

And now that I've gone all Whiny Brat on you, I will let you know that right now? At this second? I am content because someone bought me a Dilly Bar from Dairy Queen.