Grumpies

You hear a knock at the door. Who’s arrived? Oh, just the grumpies. And then they walk in, uninvited, park it on your couch, and ask for a beer. They sidle into bed with you at night, make you wonder if you need anger management skills while they whisper how much life sucks in your ear, and tell you throwing a phone book or gummy bears at your neighbor across the street who never wears a shirt and stares at your boobies while simultaneously looking like he’s going to have a stroke is a good idea.

The grumpies make me restless. I start reading, only to realize I can’t focus on the storyline. I do the laundry, only to decide it’s an exercise in futility. I start doing my hair, and then realize I’ll look ugly today no matter what; a ponyfrickintail will suffice. Just a cycle I’m going through, like a Pekingese chasing its tail for hours in a big un-fruitful circle of This Sucks.

Today, everyone around me is cute and chipper and happy and talking about how much the Special K diet, if they could just stick to it, would help make their world a better place. And then there’s me, with my nasty grumpies. I am the rancid meat between adorable Special K bread. And no one wants to eat this sandwich.

I don’t even know what that means.

Gross, Brie. Just LET.IT.GO.