Oh Mr. Darcy, I don't even know. It hasn't been a good year, health-wise.

Other Mr. Darcy! Oh my. I was just explaining to the first Mr. Darcy that I just haven't been feeling well. Again. And I'm really tired of feeling icky. 

And the fact is, I'm not even sure what's wrong.

That's all I've got, I'm afraid. I thought it was a kidney stone, but apparently my symptoms are inconsistent. I'm in pain, but, only sometimes. It's weird I know. And I'm just tired and icky and.... I don't even know.

Thank you, Mr. Darcy. That means a lot.

I know Other Mr. Darcy, I know. I'll tell you what, I'll let you have a bitch-face face-off.  Go for it.

Nice.

Mr. Darcy?

Winner.

This week has been rough on me, so I did the sensible thing when things are going badly and read a lot of Jane Austen.

Shut up, Austen does make things better.

For example, sure, health-wise this has been an icky week, but I spent at least half a day reading Pride & Prejudice for the 20th time. And that gave me ample time to prefect my fake British accent by reading aloud, so there's that.

I should add that I have an awesome fake British accent. I mean it's horrible. Like worse than Renee Zellwegger in Bridget Jones bad, but I've been perfecting it's terribleness for several years.

Please don't tell me I need hobbies. That is my hobby. It's weird, sure. I don't deny that. I blame my family. They never really censured the weirdness. I'm not going to say they encouraged it, so much, as they just sort of laughed at me, rolled their eyes, and walked away without comment. I took this as their tacit acknowledgement that being weird was perfectly okay and normal was utterly and completely boring.

So blame them. In the meantime, I'm going to do a terribly practical thing and head to see a doctor. Because, while Austen can cure many things, from a broken heart to the crisis in the Middle East, turns out kidney trouble isn't her specialty.

I know, I don't understand it either, but it happens.

I've been feeling a little overwhelmed with... everything, lately. Which is a nice, suscinct way of saying I'm, as usual, kind of a mess. What can I say - at least I'm pretty.

So I've been taking refuge in  movies, because I'm pretty sure I've watched every episode of "My Crazy Obsession," and there's only so much I can validate my life by judging strangers who collect stupid crap. I mean, the temporary high that comes with realizing how normal I am - genius - but in the end, I'm still the girl with a four foot stuffed giraffe in her room, so who am I to judge? (Long story. Short version: his name is Charley)

So anyway, movies. Specifically, I've watched things from the Nicolas Sparks cannon: A Walk to Remember, The Notebook and Dear John. Ehhh. I don't know why I do this to myself. I literally threw something at the TV screen watching Dear John. Honestly. There's a story there, and it's sweet, but.... ehhh. It just didn't come together in a satisfying way. Just like The Notebook. Just like A Walk to Remember. But just at the point where I'm tempted to turn them off and storm off ranting about unearned plot developments something always pulls me back in....

Usually this:

You're welcome.

Whatever. I'm shallow. I objectify pretty people. I won't apologize. I walked into my job at the bookstore today with my dress tucked into my underwear, and I think suffering that kind of embarrassment gives me some leeway.

Yeah, let's go with that.

To sum up, once more with feeling: I'm a mess. I had a very embarrassing wardrobe malfunction today. I have a stuffed giraffe. If this was you're life, wouldn't you take pleasure in the little things?

I think so.

Lately I've heard a lot of people saying they wish they could go back to being a child, because they didn't worry about anything and they were carefree and loved everything and the sunlight was always golden and the camera focus hazy....

Okay, maybe not that last bit, but, you get the point. I think there's this great myth out there that if your adulthood is tense, it's okay to remember your childhood as this time of bucolic bliss where you and the other neighborhood kids all played tag together and everyone love everyone else.

To this I say: Fuck it. That's not true.

Kids are mean to each other just like adults. And you were more than likely just a smaller, stupider version of yourself. 

I get it: being an adult can sucks ass. Yes, it would be nice to go back to being a kid, but really, only so I don't have to pay my freaking cable bill. If, say, a do-over presented it self, yeah, I'd go back to being a kid, provided I could somehow be the inventor of Toaster Strudel when I caught up to my 33-year-old self.

But other than that? Not so much.

Being a kid can be absolutely awful. I was anxious about the strangest things all the time. I was constantly worried when my family went somewhere that we were going the wrong direction. I would have panic attacks. I don't know why. I could probably invent a reason that has something to do with a TV movie my mom let me watch about a woman who fell asleep on a flight and ended up with no luggage in the Middle East, but that's literally all I remember about that particular movie, and also, it would be a total lie. I was just convinced we were headed the wrong way and we were all going to die in a ditch.

And that is just the beginning. I was a whole host of issues. Around the time we moved to Massachusetts when I was eight, I was obsessed with the idea that I was going to get kidnapped. Even as early as kindergarten I worried where I was going to sit when I ate lunch. So was I carefree? NOPE.

Yes, I got to play outside, and have my summer's off, but there was no running through fields of daisies with a posse of similarly happy ruffians. When I ran through a field I fell, sprained my ankle and got covered in bug bits.

Before I ramble too much longer, let me get to my point. No, I did not intend for my life to turn out this way. I don't have a pony or a gold medal in gymnastics or a real giraffe as a pet, but, if I'm  unhappy now, I'm perfectly capable of doing something about it. As a kid, there wasn't much I could do.

To me, that makes all the difference. That and disposable income.