Lately, I've been dealing with the whole resentment thing. I won't forget and am struggling with forgiving. It's still too much fun to imagine several series of bizarre, increasingly humiliating events happening, like a hungry T-Rex parachuting in on some random Wednesday or the wild daydream of hiring ninjas to steal cookies while smacking heads around. So I imagine evil scenes and I write in my "anger" journal, which will be used as kindling the next time I go camping. I know who the most selfish people in the world are, and I will not be making them cookies any time soon. Pbbbt.
Right. Enough of the emo. I am Erin, I am starting to stare down the beginning of my 33rd year, and I am the maker of a variety of awesome foods this weekend. I sometimes kick ass at cello and am routinely found in my bathtub reading Jane Austen while listening to indie rock when I should be listening to some high-brow classical stuff. I drink too many espresso shots and have a monstrous crush on David Boreanaz. I sometimes enjoy sneezing and always enjoy short sentences.
Moral of today's story: piss me off and you won't get any cookies.
An Erinku:
I have
five glow-in-the-dark
bracelets.
I just need a reason...
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