I knew that. I told you that.

A new study shows that the full moon causes sleep problems. Really? You don't say... Here's the CNN article.

It doesn't pay much

There isn't much money in my savings account--almost nothing, really. If I offer it to you as payment to kill me, would you do it? I don't know you, you don't know me...

I know the most interesting, dynamic, strong, fascinating, creative, successful women. I am not one of them. It pains me that I can't be more, or at least more like them.

Failure doesn't make me sad. Mediocrity doesn't inspire me to work harder. It's only what I am capable of, and that's my reality. Wa-wa-wa...I can't even write my own blog anymore.

So, if I pay you, will you end my sad existence? I should mention I don't actually have any money because my debts outweigh my savings. But you come here, you check in, you're interested in what I have to say, so maybe you care enough to help a sister out? I mean really out?

No? OK. I will keep shuffling on, but please don't expect any actual results.

2008

I stepped away from my blog for awhile. I'm sure you noticed.

This week, I've been rereading 2008. I don't remember writing most of those posts, so when I revisit them, it feels like I'm peering into someone else's life.

Those posts are incredibly well written, funny, insightful, and painfully deep. Where did those thoughts come from? Why can't I write like that anymore?

Today I reread the post about Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath (45 Mercy Street). What part of my brain put these words together so beautifully? I feel I should clarify. I still think that way; I just can't write it down that way.

Stick with me. It's probably all going to come back.

Miscellaneous trivia

Things you probably don't know about me:

• I don't drink milk.
• I don't drink anything carbonated. Ever.
• I don't chew gum. Ever.
• I can't make it through the National Anthem without crying.
• I'm a terrible farmer but a halfway decent gardener.
• I don't take very good care of my car.
• I don't take very good care of myself anymore.
• I have some suicide-related thought every day. Not necessarily my own.
• I work my liver a little too hard.
• I'm allergic to cold.
• I can fly a hot air balloon.
• I rarely sleep more than four hours a night. This is a problem.
• I was engaged in my twenties. It didn't work out.
• I have eight email accounts and four Twitter accounts.
• I believe I am wholly unloved.
• I think cilantro tastes like soap.
• I only dust the furniture in my house three or four times a year. I mop the floors less frequently.
• People think I'm smart, but I'm actually kind of stupid.
• I have a cabinet full of an exit strategy.
• I once almost moved to Portland, Oregon site unseen.