When I Forget How to Talk, I'll Sing

Although I've found that blogging gets in the way of my laying in bed and crying hopelessly studying Swahili, I guess I can't quit this bitch in such an alarmingly abrupt manner.  

It's raining for the gazillionth day in a row, and one of Trixie's krazy friends is coming over here today.  Don't fret, y'all, I have a plan (because I always have a plan).  Using several bed sheets, I'm going to turn the entire basement (the part I don't live in, that is) into a big sheet fort.  

That should hold them over for the entire day, leaving me free to sit in the corner of the fort and pour over the thousands and thousands of lists I make every day.  This part is integral to my plan, as today is THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE and this new chapter of my life will be dictated entirely by lists.   

To-Do lists, obsessive lists detailing every piece of food I put in my mouth, lists of all the boxes I need in my life, lists of everything I need to read or have read, plus another huge list of everybody I know that I've been working on for a few days.  Seriously, I make lists like that all the time.  List-making is therapeutic to me so when my life is entirely out of control I make a huge, daunting, list.  This time I'm making a list of every single person I know.  

You may be asking yourself, "Will the neuroses ever stop?"  But no, they won't.  Over the course of 22 years, I have built a complex web of idiosyncrasies to keep me safe from genuine emotional interaction.  It's working pretty well thus far.  

Oh, and that nail biting picture?  Just like every other picture I've ever taken, it looks a thousand times prettier than what I actually look like.  I have been blessed cursed with being extremely photogenic.  I call it my plastic surgery face and it comes on any time a camera is pointed at me.  I wish I could take a picture of myself (like that one), print it out, and then paste it over my real face.