Dear Diary: Excerpts from the private journal of a weird single lady(Me).

You can’t predict what I’m going to watch, Netflix. Stop trying so hard. Yeah, I watched “She Devil”, starring Roseanne Barr. What of it? I’m probably gonna try and watch a Carebears movie while high sometime in the near future too. What’s that? You’ve got “suggestions” for me? Alright, let’s see. . .

Frasier?  Fucking Really??

I only watched She Devil so I could laugh at the ’90s.

Okay, I might watch Frasier. But maybe only to grimace at how some people spend their time watching television. Nope, nevermind. Still not gonna watch it. Okay, I’ve totally watched it before and it wasn’t that bad. But don’t tell anyone.

Dear Diary,

Because this is, as I have discovered, what appears to be a journal of my stream-of consciousness thought, I’ll go ahead and play the hokey part of a depressing yet optimistic single 32 year old woman writing in a motherfucking diary. Bridget Jones was something I laughed at in my 20’s. Little did I know that at 32, I’d be living with my mom. By choice! Shut up. It is by choice. I’m doing big things, dude. I also still say “dude”, despite the fact that I am (or at least should be) officially an adult. I’ve been married. Ha!

You know what I just got done doing? Smoking pot out of a fucking apple. Yeah. This is my life at thirty-two, and you know what? It’s goddamned glorious.

Well, hellO, nerd. So, as I’m smoking out of this quickly decaying apple, fruit flies are starting to congregate nearby. Fuck you, fruit flies. That’s MY weed. This is the kind of pot that makes me want to take a jaunt on down to Whataburger and gorge myself on terrible foods, but it also makes me compelled to just sit here and write about it instead, then eventually go raid my mother’s unkempt, bizarre refrigerator cache. So far, this is what I’ve obtained and devoured from said fridge:

A random fillet of fish, eaten with my hands first, then a bowl, so I could drench it in tartar sauce

(I’m fatter in spirit).

A small portion of leftover rice and chicken suiza. (Too small, goddamnit).

A bowl of cottage cheese and sliced apple.

An orange or tangelo or mandarin or orangutan or whatever the fuck you call small oranges.

I just glanced up over my writing and saw the word “Whataburger” shining like a beacon among mere bullshit words—and I thought about burgers. And how great they taste.

If you didn’t think it was funny, then let me ask you THIS: Why are you reading my diary??

Anne Marie always laughs at Anne Marie. Fucking always. (You know who you are, babycakes). (Did I just write an affectionate aside to myself? Yes I did. Because I’m awesome).

Hi Anne Marie. Do you remember writing this? If not, please stop drinking and/or never speak to ANYONE while you’re high on this pot. Also, I really hope you have someone to make out with very soon. Yes, I just said that. Because apparently I’m a corn-ball and wasn’t inclined to opt for some other sexual act, just “making out”. Making out is STUpendous. Jesus Christ this is getting sadder by the minute. What started as good clean diary fun is rapidly spiraling downward into an after school special about a lady who lived with her mom and started stalking someone. I just laughed out loud. At myself. For saying that. See? Anne Marie always laughs at Anne Marie.

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