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.