Dear Eve; Thank you, kindly.

The arrival of Aunt Flo marked the end of a trying PMS-infused week, and the onset of two very horizontal days. To be partially bedridden is to writhe in pain until the Advil decides to come along and temporarily numb my contracting uterus.
I want a brownie AND Pizza Hut.

I thank them

for salvaging my sanity:

http://www.sunshoppecafe.com/

Princess Bella . . .

Miley Bear and Teddy's only pup:



Oh, and me being a wannabe hottie:

diaphragm

Sing a song from the depths of your insides.

"come on shake your body, baby, do that conga."

I love Gloria Estefan, mainly because "she was the only Hispanic crossover artist of back in the day," according to my mom and the interweb. As I sit here enjoying my 'Rich Chocolate Royal' Slim-Fast and eight ounces of Florida's Natural brand orange juice, I think of how badly I want a body like Michelle Rodriguez's. With the sound of Estefan's 'Conga' transitioning to Anita Ward's 'Ring My Bell'--and quickly back to 'Conga', again--I spot Snickers the gray poodle feverishly humping his brown blanket in the center of the family room floor (grotesque), and realize that the only way to get in better shape is to stop blogging, and throw on my Chuck Taylors. Wish me luck, blogger. Sayofreakingnara, for now.

"it's in my honey, it's in my milk."

'High Violet'--The National's youngest offspring--is delectably delicious, and I've recently learned to cope with my insatiable need for a daily listen or two, three, four, five, six, or seven. The National was a band I vaguely knew about until having fallen in love with a super-fan. "You just made yourself available," he dedicated, and upward soared my curiosity about painstakingly sad songs for painstakingly dirrty lovers (despite nearly having been unjustly labeled a whore). Thanks, The National, for finely-accentuating the sorrow within my life, and making it feel so damn good.
In case you've yet to notice; my name is Amanda, and this be my venting vault. I've packed away every other post save for what your prying eyes have now (possibly) successfully perused. Enjoy this publicly-private journal sans lock and key.