I swear to God if my house is on fire, I'm going to lose my shit.

I've been having kind of a rough time lately. You may have noticed. If my incessant calling and pleading to hang out has not clued you into my spiraling state of mind then I'll just be a grown up and admit it. I'm lonely as hell. And to top this off my biological clock has become a steady tick rather than a sometime nagging reminder.

Consequently, this isn't making me any easier to get along with, which isn't normally easy to begin with. So I'm just back-sliding down the scree-filled slope of the mountain now.

Nothing is going my way today. The cup-holder on my camp chair is too small for my wine glass. I wanted to go buy jeans at my favorite store with my handy 25% off coupon; they're closed. No one is this God-forsaken town (I know it's Easter and all and this is probably a bad time to use the Lord-aligned epithets but it's all I've got. I'm avoiding the F-word.) knows where the heck they're going or how to get there. I literally had a mini-meltdown in the parking lot of the Wachovia. I had a good short cry going down the classy part of Stratford road, which would have been even more disastrous if it weren't for the one saving grace of this story. My aviators are mirrored. No one could tell!

You can't see me but I'm totally doing the double devil horns/international Rock-On sign.

I finally get over myself and are headed home on Reynolda when at the stop-light I see a giant billowing cloud of dark black smoke coming from the general direction of my apartment. And I say to myself out loud: I swear to God if my house is on fire, I'm going to lose my shit.

I'm not really sure what "losing one's shit" exactly entails but I know it would not be attractive and would probably be extremely sordid. And to make a long story short, I'm not blogging from a jail cell or a padded room. Obviously I still have my shit together. Just barely though.

By the way, What are you doing later?