Funk

The past week or so, I have been going through what can only be described (after a very scholarly discussion with my friend, Marray) as a funk. My daily thoughts go something like this:

*Screw you sunshine.

*Would anyone really blame me if I knocked out my maddening co-worker, Mindy, with a sock full of nickels?

*I love you hot chocolate, you make me all warm and toasty inside, even when it’s already 80 degrees outside.

*If those parents do not get their kids to stop screaming in my ear, I am going to grind their bones and make it into bread. Which I would then feed to ducks at a pond. Because I only eat whole wheat now.

*George, you’re cute as a button, but if you try and kiss/lick inside my mouth one more time, I will slap you across your face. Muzzle. Muzzle-face-snout.

In general, I think I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky-ish person, but this funk has got me all… grumpy. Except when it comes to my devoted attachment of hot chocolate, which I doubt could ever be swayed. The imaginary rain clouds lifted temporarily for an exclusive “girls night”, which included all the accoutrements of pizza, junk food, and a chick-flick-esque movie. Of course, to be followed by pillow fights in our underwear. But after all the feathers from the pillows made their landing, I got to talking to Marray about said funk (see above) and she admitted that she was experiencing her own version. And so our funk united (in a non-BO sort of way) and we started talking about weird things that only someone experiencing the funk would appreciate. Like, injecting heroin into our eyeballs.

Another frustrating thing associated with the funk is my health/fitness effort (see: many hours of sweaty, exhausting workouts). The funk has left me with no appetite and my stupid weight keeps dropping (I know, boo hoo, poor me, life is so hard). But to me, this sucks. I have been working so hard. I want to be able to pull someone out of a burning car, not try and fit in the glove compartment. Blast you funk! I best wake up Wonder Woman tomorrow, with some sexy, gleaming (albeit feminine) muscles. If not, I’m going to hire some people to come hose me down with butter and back in a dump truck full of Haagen Daz to my house. Then the headline will read, “Girl Dies after Drowning in Trough of Ice Cream!” Hmmm, that might not be a bad way to go.

In the meantime, I’ll sit at my desk and pretend to think deep thoughts that don’t involve hot fudge sundaes.