I was just going about my business, breathing and whatnot, when it hit me. Damn, I am feeling hateful.
Hateful of my job, hateful of my weight, hateful of my job, hateful of money, hateful of my sore heel, hateful of my job, hateful of gas prices, hateful of most people, hateful of the weather, hateful, hateful, hateful.
I would be willing to throw my career in the toilet, if it meant I didn't have to drive 48 miles to work, one way, and could, instead, sleep and extra hour and work retail at Kohl's across the street. Retail, people. Working retail is better than my current life. Especially if it means I can walk to work. No $2.87 a gallon required.
My heel, which, I will admit, is feeling highly improved, but nonetheless, is injured. INJURED. What the cripes is wrong with me that I can't last a few months without injuring some portion of one of my legs? I've decided it's my weight. If I wasn't so heavy, I tell myself, I would not be putting so much stress on my body while running, and therefore wouldn't have a sore heel. I like running. I want to run. I have new running pals and I want to run with them. Dangit. I've been meaning to ride my bike (Roberta Worthington Schnell, or Bert, by the way) all week to make up for my lack of running, but it's difficult to ride a bike when it's cold, windy and raining. And so I've just been rotting on the couch all week, with my foot on ice.
And people? People drive slow. And chew loud. And have bad-ittudes. And all I really want? Is a box of Nerds. And a dog. A bigger apartment, new job and some Tylenol.