To say I've been cranky in the pantalones would be a smidgeon of an understatement. I mean, I've been downright weepy and girlie and shit and it's about to make me kick myself in my own damn taint if I don't get the fuck over it already. Well, that's what I thought, anyway.
Then, this really smart guy I live with (the hawt one) pointed out that an occasional party of the pity variety is actually a healthy thing to throw for oneself.
I questioned his wisdom, briefly, because I feel a bit like the girl with the most cake right now. Why should I host such a party for myself? Seems a misplaced shindig. Yet, the emotional, party-planning, Martha Stewart of my psyche is still all, "Send out the fucking invite already!"
And, Hawt Wise Man is all, "Put on your damn hat and let me hug you, woman!"
Kleenex boxes appear. Snot fills my head. Jumbled words and illogical thought-streams squirt from my mouth area.
I look so sexy that celebrities want to BE ME. Screw the smoky eye. The Pity Party Eye is the sheeaat.
I'm thinking one more bowl of Ciao Bella coconut gelato and this soirée is a wrap.
Many thanks to that Hawt Guy for showing me how to do this and reminding me it isn't truly a solo gig. Love you most.