Steamroller guts

No matter what I wanted to begin with, I can't help but be distracted by my belly. On the best of days, the slightest brush of the skin on my abdomen feels sharp, sensitive and red-- from the fucking mindless fucking chronic inflammation of my bowels.
Sometimes when I remember, I will lay on my belly and the pressure makes it feel better.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Today was one of those times.
I had to call this woman back, to tell her about nutrition school.
She's overly chatty, and I've at all times resisted calling her back in the past. I badmouthed my school in the most diplomatic of ways, all the while laying bellydown on my exercise ball. Maybe I should use it for exercising-- a better way to have a steamroller belly.
Utter pain is an overstatement, but severe discomfort is not. Feelin' it.
Rub my belly.
So I was writing in my journal (I started my 50tth-- yes 50th-- one yesterday) this morning, and for some reason, the fact that my new upstairs neighbours have a kickin' sex life (they haven't even officially moved in yet and the celings have been heaving at night quite a few times now) got me in a cheery mood and I was pumped while listening to Blood Sugar Sexx Majik before we left for work rather than Morrisey (besides making you want to do it with his androgenous sexy asexual self, he depresses you) as per usual. I was delighted that for once, on a Thursday (my Monday), I was excited and ready to face the work day...
until I saw my jesus shoe rack.
I just retired my most comfortable pair on the weekend. They're ugly and far beyond driven.
I really wanted to wear them with my Shediac concrete forms shrt, but I promised myself I wouldn't. My silver Mary Jane's with a tshirt? I didn't even wanna. But I did. Because I hated all my other shoes more.
I went to work all pissed off, although I did snag three 99cent loaves of kamut bread on my way in.
I was, according to Emilar, "seeping with anger" (because two many vitamin pushers spoil the broth behind that tiny desk, especially with 300 boxes in my face) and was snappy at her when she made fun of a girl's fake Louis Vuitton (whoever) bag.
"Oh, I hate girls who have that fake bag," or something to that effect.
"Yeah. Well, maybe we can just make enough money to buy them all an original," or something bitchy like that.
"I'm just joking."
"No you're not," She'd said it once before. I didn't care that she felt that way. She likes fashion. Whatever. (So she is sad, holds it inside all night, we talk about it later, c'est cool. I am a jerk)
And work was whatever. at least Chris visited, to bring Emily coffee 3of 3.
Emily's pal Andrew came over at say 9. She was outside on her cellphone, so I let him in (altho I had no idea he was coming) and he flipped thru Leonard Maltin's movie guide 1999 while I stupidly fucking stgeamrolled my stomach. Remember when?
So I discovered after all this time that he has a similar music taste to myself and Luke Penny (90s alt+metal) . Wicked.
When I said I liked Tool he asked me to marry him.
I like when guys ask he to marry them, even when they don't mean it, and even tho I don't really want to get married. He rolled us a perfect conical j (we don't know how), but didn't smoke it because he wants to work for the government. So disciplined.
Greg called while we were outside. He left a cute message, as usual.
Em and I chatted and reminisced about when life was fun for a couple of hours.
And I'm stuffy and sour because my belly hurts, and mad be cause I didn't even get to eat anything cool to make it happen. Again, at two and a half in the a.m., sleep is the only thing that could sweeten the pot.