My scale doesn’t work, but if I had to guess, I weigh One Million Dollars. A svelte, incredibly attractive One Million Dollars. This is the best thing I have going for me today. I’m trying to hold on to this, because whatever passes for my “professional life” is starting to feel like a shit-eating contest.

I could waste your time with a 32-point bullet list about anxiety attacks, the unwilling workplace politico and that singularly unique feeling when you get caught flat-footed. I mean, I won’t because that would be boring and immature, and honestly it boils down to me really needing to get myself together. My job description now reads “Grin and bear it.”

I was so entirely inundated last night that I actually had to turn my phone off for a while, just long enough to feel like I could breathe again. I’m not an important person by any means; hell, I don’t even know if I can justify my data plan, but last night it had to go away. I clung to my Finnish superphone's dead weight like flotsam until I managed to find myself some calm. 

Ever since the whole Dickgate debacle, I’ve had this sinking feeling that I’ve been doing nothing “right” in my life. I don’t do many things right anyway, so no big deal, but one of my few marketable skills is that I can stumble over my own feet and turn it into a pratfall. I’m getting worried I’ve lost my ability to even pull that off. 

This week I managed to throw out my elbow, it hurt. I threw out my elbow trying to hit a girl, with a foam ball. I missed, but still, feel like a badass.