Sure I'm sober, Sure I'm sane...

I'm stressed. I actually have to be good at this job and I don't think that I am.

My brain hurts. I am not a lawyer.

My feet hurt. These are new shoes.

My Shame Spiral aches a bit. I dropped a condom in front of my boss when my purse spilled everywhere. Classy moment, I'm sure.

My heart hurts. I know I am an idiot about these things. No man will ever love me. Boo hoo. If they've caused me nothing but misery, why do I care?

They really shouldn't make them so warm, though.

Who knows? Oh wait. I'll refer back to the idiot thing. And a glutton for self-punishment. And a good girl who masquerades as a slut so will only be treated as such. And a dork. And a cynic. And a hopeless romantic. Which basically just translates to Crazy Bitch.

Maybe I'm just exhausted. In fact, I know it's exactly where this mood is coming from. Still doesn't change how right I am about it, though.

Something needs to change. Soon. I'm sending out a memo.

Why do I care? Stop caring. Of course it turns out this way, it's how it was all set up. So just stop. Work 80 hours a week, buy yourself something pretty, and smoke the rest.

I have to go to a meeting now. If I could please not drop anything humiliating this time around, it would be much appreciated. For reals.

I hate it when I'm melancholy. Here you go, kids.