Sooo…. I’m bored, and I feel like I have NOTHING significant to say. But, I also know that I need to keep writing. To push through this momentary writers block and go forth into the night…… there is a good chance I’ve been reading too much Faulkner. I’ve started thinking and speaking with a Southern accent. It’s getting weird over here.

So, good news bad news time. I’ll start with the bad news. I’m back on my fertility drugs and I feel like shit ALL THE TIME. We’re not doing any treatments, but because I have PCOS they want me to stay on a drug called Metformin regardless. I’ve been off and on it a bajillion times. I go off of it and regain my social self and regain about 30 lbs. Get back on it, become a recluse and lose 30lbs. I figure, right now I have nothing to do. No obligations, no doula work, no school… nothing. So, I’ll stick it out with this damn devil drug until my body gets used to it, or I need to leave the house.

Being stuck at home has literally NO perks. Unless you like cooking and cleaning and laying on the couch with a big furry dog who likes to snuggle all day long. Which sounded great during finals, but now it sounds like my worst nightmare. I hate cooking, I hate cleaning… although I do love that furry bastard, I am still wishing school was in session. I miss going to class and having to use my brain. I also miss seeing my friends. It feels like I’m stranded on a deserted island, full of Louie’s stinky dirty clothes, disgusting protein shakers (BTW, he’s allergic to dairy and has to drink beef protein and it’s THE WORST SMELLING THING EVER), and a dog that farts all day. Yay.

OK good news time. I kicked this semesters fucking ass! I feel like the champion of the WORLD. I really wish I would have found this amazing desire.. say… 8 years ago.. when I started college. Because I’d totally be a Ph.D by now. But alas, I am a lowly undergraduate with big dreams and no realistic way of achieving them. Unless I want to wait to have kids until I’m 40 and then put them in daycare when they’re 6 weeks old. Because holy hell, if I worked that hard to get a fucking Ph.D you better BELIEVE I would be working, or just walking the streets with my degrees telling people how smart I am. So, no. Realistically, I’m probably going to be done after this.

More good news. Next semester, being my last, I decided to take on a HUGE project. A project that I think most people would think is lame and boring, but I am like… elated. The professor I’ve had the worst time with these past 3 semesters, is sponsoring a special studies course titled “Reading Faulkner Through a Granddaughters Perspective: The Analysis of James Hinkle’s Research”… Pretty much the coolest thing ever ever ever. I have to write a 20 page thesis paper and a 10 page Reading Faulkner Guide to “Go Down, Moses”. I always thought I would be a Hemingway addict, but honestly, I understand why my grandpa made the jump from Hemingway to Faulkner. Hemingway is great, but Faulkner really challenges a reader. Every word he wrote is packed full of history and allusion. It’s inspiring and also fucking intense.

Tonight I’m making Faulkner’s favorite food. Salmon Croquettes. So I’ll let you know how that goes.

Some good/angering news… I’ve decided that along with taking those damn meds, I’m going to start eating right and working out. I’ve been back and forth about sharing that with people, because I hate doing shit that everyone say’s I should. I also hate that the whole fucking world makes women think that they have to be a size two to be desirable. I refuse to let the world and their fucked up beauty standards determine who I am, damn it! The reason I’m doing this, is because I’d like my body to be a more desirable place for a baby to live. I’d also like to be able to fit into clothes that don’t come from Target’s maternity section or the place where my grandma used to buy her moomoo’s. I will never subscribe to the stupid standards of the commercialized beauty industry, but I will subscribe to my own idea of what is healthy for me. Healthy for me… is not a size 2, or 5 or even 8. Because I like my body and my body, to me, doesn’t look good at any of those sizes. Healthy for me means not getting type II diabetes at age 35.. because I HATE SUGAR FREE THINGS. They give me IBS and taste like chemicals. Healthy for me means not eating my feelings and then crying about it. Healthy for me means being able to walk to the mail box without having to ask Louie to stop while I catch my breath (granted, our mail box is legitimately up a huge hill). So, I’d like to be healthy… for me. I would however like to let you all know that NO I will NOT plague your facebook with obnoxious posts about food and exercise and try to make you feel guilty because you aren’t working as hard as me and training everyday and barfing your feelings. No. I’ll be nice, because I fucking hate those posts. I don’t give a shit about your ab’s or your quads or your biceps. I’ll document my health by complaining about how shitty it is, but I wont blast your news feed with guilt trips. I’ll rant over here.. on my blog. Which is ALL ABOUT ME.

Sorry about there not being any pictures this time around. Maybe I’ll find something more exciting to blog about next week. Like I told my mom, not every blog post can be a winner.

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