I'm too old for this.
I can't go see Springsteen until 1 a.m.
I can't freelance and work a full time job.
I can't do karaoke two nights a week.
I can't be the multi-tasker who doesn't answer texts. I don't want to be her. I want to be the girl who gives my friends attention and more attention. I want to be Super Friend.
Super Friend! Super Friend! She's super friendyyy, yow.
I need to pet the cat more. Just shove my face in his belly and feel it rattle.
Alex and I are leaving town for a wedding tomorrow (not ours), and we both just decided that we need to let ourselves rest tonight and tomorrow morning and leave later rather than earlier.
Regardless I plan to have a Starbucks in hand as we roll away.
How you say 100?
That's what I need. A Centi macchiato.
And make it a triple.
And I need rest. With a motoring cat next to me.
I feel like my blog has morphed into Bailey's diary, and all it ever says is: "Bailey's tired." "Bailey wants donuts." "Bailey's obsessed with her cat."
I'm sorry about that.
Wait no I'm not.
I wonder if Bruce Springsteen likes spaghetti, since his name shares so many letters with the dish?
Deep thoughts for your Friday afternoon.
I would make coffee, but I'm too tired and lazy to get up and do it.
Oatmeal (dried fruit, pecans, cinnamon)
Salad (chicken, avocado, chia seeds, cucumber, tomato)
Four (?) Reese's eggs
I've peed a lot today. I've kept my energy -- and my mood -- up today.
But I'm crashing, friends. Crash. ing.
Craaaaaaaaaaaaaash into me, yeah. Baaaabyyyyyy.
I love Joni Mitchell (I know the above lyric is not one of hers. Calm down).
OK. I might go see about that coffee now. Because something's gotta change, and that change ain't going to be that I'm reverting to my youth. Because clearly I'm getting old.
Bye, folks. Talk lata. Hopefully more competently.