HOLD ON, YOU GUYS

I just took a look at the ol' Blogger dashboard and realized I have like five or six half-finished posts from the last couple of months. We can blame that on the fact that I'm a perfectionist and I don't have the attention span to do anything from start to finish, or we can list off a couple of quick excuses that make it seem like I've been really busy lately. One of those options involves lots of links, and the other involves lots of crying. Let's do this shit.


I started hula hooping. Then I started making hoops. Making hula hoops, as it turns out, is easier than actually hula hooping. I can't do tricks, but I can waist-hoop for 30 or 40 minutes a day on my lunch break. And, more importantly, I can allow my coworkers to believe that the 23 pounds I've lost since March were due to said daily hooping regimen rather than my other daily regimen, stress and amphetamines (seriously, Adderall killed my appetite. It's totally gone. You know what else is gone? My ass. And I miss it so, so much). So I've been making exercise hoops for my coworkers. I'm a hoop mogul now. A robber hooper baron. J. Pierpont Hoopsalot Morgan (Arcane references to Gilded Age industrialists are not, to my knowledge, a known side effect of Adderall).

It was my friend Laura who initially got me into hooping. Laura is also the reason that...


I'm stage managing a Fringe Festival show. It's Laura's show, and she needed a stage manager. I don't know what that is, but I do know how to Google, and I also know who Scooter from the Muppet Show is, so I should be okay. And the more I read, the more it seems like stage managing has basically the same skill set as directing a handbell choir. Actors are easier to deal with than church ladies, right? I can do this, right? "Stage managing" is an actual verb, right??

On the upside, the show will take up the time that I would have spent thinking...

Holy fucking shit, I bought this!

Pictured: How the hell did this even happen?!

 Because even though it's all but official at this point, every time I think about it, I experience this strange mix of incredulity and swear words. I'm buying a goddamn house. In 12 days it will be mine. Well, mine and Wells Fargo's. 20% mine, at least. And let me tell you something about accomplishing a major milestone such as this: you think, oh, look at me, being a grown up, but the farther into the process you go, the more you realize you have no fucking clue. I had to start carrying more auto insurance (more than the state minimum, for once) because people can sue you if you cause an accident and you don't have enough insurance to pay for it? What? Even though it looks like a townhouse, it's really a condo? How is that possible? I have dozens of pages of homeowner's association documents, and none of them say how long you can keep your Christmas decorations up, even though that's the only thing I thought associations controlled? And for some reason, there are like 12,000 fucking washers and dryers on the market, and at least as many refrigerators, and you can reach a point where all the paint chips start to look the same, and you can't decide, because all you really wanted was a grey bedroom and WHY IS THAT SO HARD??

Okay, maybe this option had some crying too.

But, I have scene changes to highlight and hoops to tape. And lots and lots of boxes to pack. So this is the end, just a few minutes after I started writing (Thanks, Adderall, although focus won't make up for the missing butt).

Alright then. Back to work.