When I was pregnant (and even before sometimes), most of my dreams were romantic. I rarely (never?) dreamed about actually doing “it”, but my subconscious had long, candlelit dinners and romantic walks that were definitely leading somewhere. Do you know what I dream about now? BEING ALONE. It’s not that I no longer want romance, it’s that being alone seems even more rare – something I can only get in my dreams. (Co-sleeping doesn’t help.)
Over the last week or so, I have determined any book I read during PMS gets a rating on Goodreads of one star lower than it otherwise would have been. I have no inclination to be nice or give anything the benefit of the doubt.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how badass does it make me to have burned my finger while ironing wrapping paper? (I know what you’re thinking: 11. But honestly, 10 is the most cool you can get. There is no 11.)