This week on Conversations with Cleverbot: I try my hand at street vending, Cleverbot puts my customer service skills to the test.
I’ve been really, really trying to enjoy summer, guys. Really. I’ve made a dedicated effort to get my lazy butt down to the beach at least once a week for a dose of sun and sand. I’ve been doing all sort of outdoorsy sports and activities. I’ve been to fireworks and Pride events and watched flyboarders doing really cool shit I can’t afford to try.
But when it comes down to it, I’m a winter girl.
My perpetually pale skin has been laughing hysterically at my various attempts to achieve something resembling a tan, while Nutty Hubby’s Mediterranean genes allow him to bronze up in two seconds flat.
I love the beach, but I hate how much of it we inevitably bring home with us at the end of every visit. (I suspect that sand secretly likes summer even less than I do and that’s why it keeps trying to stow away in our bags and our shoes and our hair and our clothes…)
My hermit tendencies have been overruled to the max, and I don’ t have a single free weekend in August now because everyone suddenly realized, “OH SHIT SUMMER’S ALMOST OVER, MUST MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME!” and wants to hang out or visit. I know I’m probably getting the side-eye right now from people for whom being busy with friends every weekend is the norm, but for me it just means I’ll be even more exhausted than usual because social interaction tires me the fuck out.
And there’s our apartment, or as I currently call it, Hell’s Waiting Room.
I don’t know about you, but I like to be bundled up when I sleep. Wrapping myself in the airy softness of a down comforter sends the message to my brain that we are cozy and safe and that slumber may commence in 3…2…ZZZZZzzzZzzzzzzzzzzZz…
You know what doesn’t help me sleep? Lying sprawled out on just a fitted sheet sweating like Niagara Falls has been temporarily redirected through my pores. There is no duvet, only Zuul.
No breeze can find its way through our tiny, sheltered window. The electric fan serves only to blow more hot air over my face; the down comforter sits at the end of the bed where it has been most unceremoniously shoved and looks at me reproachfully, wondering why I don’t love it anymore.
I do love you, IKEA comforter. You’re just too hot to handle.
Bring my goddamn winter back.
My body, AKA The Dirty Traitor, has made it its mission in life to find new and interesting reasons to send me to the doctor. And the novelty is wearing off.
This is going to be a long post. You may want to grab a coffee or something.
So there I was at my weekly Dungeons and Dragons session, slaughtering various fantasy creatures and otherwise minding my own business, when I went to write something down on my character sheet and registered a sudden sharp pain in my wrist where it grazed the table. I didn’t think much of it at first, since I’m a pro at collecting bruises whose origins I don’t recall. I figured I had likely just whacked my wrist against a table corner sometime earlier in the week without noticing. But when I instinctively rubbed the area with my other hand, that’s when I felt the lump.
A hard, pea-sized, ovoid lump that moved around when pressed.