Lately, working has been wearing thin. Real fucking thin. So thin I have to continually eat the free food and whatnot to remind myself even in hell, I eat well.

So, I’m waddling around snacking and tensing every muscle until my brain hurts, figuratively, and my head aches, literally. Or maybe both figuratively and literally. Can you feel your brain?

The comparison that keeps bubbling to the surface like an emotional turd that circles the bowl and then pops up for more, the emotional Mr. Hanky, is with a certain movie. You order too many lunches, have to park a car, order limos and deal with anxious spouses, all whilst being a wise ass, the natural goof is “The Devil Wears Prada.”

I think it really might have been the carparking.

Anyways, the wonderful and supportive M. rented up the flick for our home viewing last night. I spent the day reliving the comparisons.

(OK, and hiking, but, you know, that lacks a certain drama. I mean, if you are in the sun and nature and all, maybe you’re not exactly wilting with the vodka and barbituates cocktail. But, you know, I could have been. Everything always hangs by a thread in this painful existence.)