Mmm. Sandwiches.

I hate Martha Stewart. That pretentious, inescapable were-bitch. I watch TLC as an exercise in escapism, gathering the occasional ingenious home-decorating tip - but I doze off for fifteen minutes or so, and then it's her. The soulless eyes. The dainty yet rigidly controlled body language. The helmet of blonde.

Anyway. I had a birthday this week and even the wave of self-entitlement I was riding (and the multitude of shots consumed) didn't make me smoke a cigarette. Dang! I said to myself the next morning. I did, however, demand that someone sleep with me (no dice), but apart from that, I think I was as well-behaved as is fitting of someone who cannot by any stretch refer to themselves as in her early twenties anymore.

Since then, though, I've decided to enter a period of voluntary bedrest. I'm having some muscular distress in more or less every muscle I knew I had. I decided that attending a weight-lifting class at 9:30 in the morning would be a superb way to begin my birthday on Monday, and after about seventeen thousand lunges with a barbell on my shoulders as my thighs screamed in agony, walking gained a whole new novelty. I still am having trouble rising to my feet after I pee. Going anywhere remains somewhat problematic, as our house is on pilings and braving that flight of stairs is sort of daunting right now. And when I do get in the car, turning the wheel makes my triceps shudder.

I have little else to add, save that Lost is new tonight, and last week's episode ended in a real holy fucking crap kind of moment, so if anyone calls while it's on, they will be ignored.