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Ready, Set, Fetal Position.

Today was a bad day.

I woke up early for an appointment, spent too much time and money there, and ate way too much at a Japanese restaurant where I was told that I ate the last caramel banana spring roll last night when I patronised said restaurant. Excuse me, what? I thought desserts were made on a daily basis?


I won’t talk about the water that had powdery white stuff on the bottom either. The same water I never usually drink because it is Orlando and I swear they have never heard of filters. Too bad I was broke and needed something to wash down the pill I had to take. It also did not help that I discovered the substance after I had already downed about half the cup, and my amiga was on her second.

Further, I am overwhelmed, to say the least, with all of the work I have to do this weekend alone. I have to read 7 chapters and do a half page summary of each chapter for a book I have yet to receive in the mail. Oh, and let me not forget to mention – the book is in Spanish. (Speaking of the mail, I am still waiting on my colour ink that UPS claimed they delivered on the 16th!)

Reading seven chapters of a book of preference is like cutting ice cream, but unwillingly reading one in a different language is like cutting open those plastic things that certain electronics come in. (You know, like the ones in Best Buy that after about five minutes of aggressive impatience you have to stop yourself from thinking they really never meant for you to open it in the first place.)

What really set me off in my bad mood though, or maybe “bad” is the wrong word, is that I decided to tell my life story to someone who I thought should know it. No problem there except for the fact that I never realised how many bad memories I had forced myself to forget, and how undoubtedly difficult it was to go through them all over again in my head.

Yes, I admit, I have plenty of baggage. The saddest part of it is that after about 2 or 3 hours of my rambling, I realised that I really only skimmed the waters. There is so much more that remains untouched. The many incidents I have tried to consign to oblivion are now revisiting me and carrying me to a place I forgot existed.

It makes me wonder if the smile I slap on every day is just a pitiful cover up for a girl with way too many problems to even remember half of them.

The worst part of all of this is the essay I have to write for my grammar class tomorrow about a “humourous” experience from my childhood. Oxymoron much?

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