We buy watermelon for the barbeque but don't end up eating it so they sit in our fridge for a week and then we decide, yes, tonight's the tonight. We're going to eat that watermelon. We'll have it for dinner, it'll be glorious, but I get home late, or maybe I don't, and last week as I was walking by the strip club, because I always walk by the strip club to get to my parking space at work, there was a beautiful lady that stepped out the strip club door and there were all these men around her (okay, like three) and she kissed one of them on the cheek and then stepped in a silver car, and she almost looked regal as she stepped out of the doors, but then the car backed up and sped down the street and that was it, and this weekend I was very bad and I ate out Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday. Friday night was Italian food on the west side, Saturday night was dive bar tacos downtown at coronado's (highly recommended), and Sunday was cuban brunch in El Monte (also delicious, but so much meat!). I felt tired all weekend, maybe from all the good, inexpensive food I was having. Still, a part of me kept scolding myself, saying I should stay home, save my money. I usually don't eat out so much. Not like that. No.

I've become a recluse in my late twenties. Let's be honest. I hate when people ask me what I do. I don't like the Hollywood la di da. It's a stereotype, sure. And it's exaggerated, but there are bits of truth to it too. I feel like it doesn't happen so much on the east-ish side, but maybe I'm just biased. Could be. I have extreme moments of panic where I plan to escape to the wilderness and lock myself away in some cabin and just write, write, write. I don't like the Hollywood mentality. I don't care what clothes you wear, what car you drive, where you get your massages or your waxes. I don't give a shit that you make more money than me or less money than me. I don't care if you're wearing a gold watch. Or that you just got new highlights for your hair. I carry around a battered white tote with ink stains on the bottom. No, I do not want to get a new bag. No, I do not have a purse, I'll just use my jean pocket to hold my ID, my credit card, my chapstick, thanks. Yes, these boots are so last season.

Staple, staple, staple. The interns stapling report and report and report. It's repetitive, but someone has to do it, and I'm grateful that he's here.

I'm so damn grumpy. I don't know when to quit. I'm so damn happy too.

I signed up for two pilates classes this week. Six AM. During the week. Let's see if I can get out of the house by then. It's one thing if I'm half-naked, curled up on my couch writing at 5AM, it's another if I have to wash my face, get ready to be seen by others. You know, semi-coordinating clothes. Or not. That's too hard. A part of me wants to do three classes per week but that might be too much. Too crazy. Too pricey. You know. Just too.

Started watching THE LOST ROOM last night. A recommendation from my writing group. So far so good. I'm excited.

My eyes have been burning. They're rejecting the sun. I wear sunglasses even in the office and I feel better. It still hurts though. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. It's a dull ache. My body is rejecting the sun. Wash, rinse, repeat. REJECT.