nesting.

The day when you find mice living in your cupcake pans and barely care anymore, you know you're close to hitting rock bottom. What's worse is tugging that pan out from under your stove, tossing the mouse in the air and causing it, completely accidentally, to fall to a painful, squishy death.

I feel a lot like that mouse. Except I haven't fallen yet. I'm still somersaulting through the air, facing my certain peril in terror and confusion. I don't know who displaced me and sent me flying. I only know that I can't do a thing about it.

Do you know who I am?

"You stupid f----ing b----!"

I'm so glad that I went through seven years of higher education to be showered in four-letter words and told that I don't know what I'm doing by common criminals.

It gets old, putting on that suit with sensible shoes every morning. In the summer, the 3-block walk makes me sweaty, and by the time I make it to and fro, I reek. All I want to do is take a 30-minute shower and down a fifth of tequila.

Then there's the winter. God, the winter is horrible. I spend about 16 weeks of winter either mildly or miserably ill. I writhe on my couch with a searing headache and scratchy throat. I cough until my insides ache. I go through at least 20 boxes of tissues. The reason this happens is the forced trek to and fro up that cursed hill. And when I get there, again I am cursed out, beaten down, disrespected and resented.

So, when my client busted out the four-letter words on me yesterday, I began evaluating my life. Here's the bottom line: I hate my job most days. I hate my home life. I hate my family. There's only one solution: I have to bite the bullet and make some big life changes. The sooner, the better. This stupid f---ing b---- is done putting up with everyone's bulls---.

sometimes, i just sits and thinks.

If you actually are an idiot, is unfair if I treat you like one?

You are obsessive about the strangest and most pointless things. Not watching a movie because you've missed part of it. Not reading books mid-series; reviewing all previous books in a series if you haven't read them in a while and the author adds a new one. Missing an episode of a tv show. This is enough to make your mind spin, and you tell me it's because you can't figure out what's already happened when you do this. This means that you are an idiot.

That's only the beginning. There's also an inability to put dirty socks anywhere but my living room floor, a disdain for clothing if you aren't "going out," and that European nonchalance for whether you've shaved or brushed your teeth, say, any time this week.

Then there's your sci-fi obsession, phobia of the gym, and desire for all the things in life that interest me the least--a house, kids, and matching last names. Oh, and let's just clarify that you are in no way going to assist in paying for any of those milestones because no one wants to hire you. Again, this is because you are an idiot.

The thing that frustrates me the most, though? That, despite all this, you have no idea why people think you're slow, odd, and/or irritating. Here's a hint: it's because you are.