She sat like this for so long, I couldn't not take a picture.

My cats are strange.

Because you people don't know nearly enough about me.

I am frustrated that I’m having to rely on a meme for blog content. (Not that there's anything wrong with a good meme, but...)

I think I’ve been eating too much candy as of late. Sadly, this, too, does not provide blog content.

I have a serious problem watching too much television lately. First True Blood, then Weeds, now Dead Like Me… and next? Six Feet Under.

I wish I was more extroverted.

I hate the telephone. Except for text messages.

I miss Edward.

I fear that I'll finally decide to hold a blog contest and no one will participate.

I hear people talking all around me as they answer phones and the same questions we hear all. Day. Long.

I smell what the Rock is cooking.

I crave potatoes. It’s a problem. I mean, it’s better than candy, but still… every night, more potatoes. I dice ‘em up and sauté ‘em in a little oil and garlic salt until they’re crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Effing yumm.

I search for blog contest ideas, but can’t come up with anything that anyone hasn’t already done before.

I wonder if my pants will ever feel loose again.

I regret eating so much candy.

I love candy.

I ache after eating too many hot tamales.

I am not very creative or I’d come up with a better answer.

I believe in moderation. I swear. Just... not lately.

I dance if a gun is held to my head.

I sing very loudly, and very poorly, along with the radio while I’m alone in my car.

I cry when I’m angry. And during sad commercials. And sometimes when I don’t get my way. And, recently, during My Sister’s Keeper ‘cause, holy crap, that was a sad movie.

I fight the temptation to read Twilight again.

I win what? Was there a contest?

I lose my mind when I have to explain something more than twice.

I never lose my temper. (Hahahahaha. Haha. Ha.)

I always triple check the locks before I go to bed.

I confuse easily.

I listen to the TV. Constantly. It’s on in the background while I’m cooking, cleaning, on the internet. At all times except while I’m reading. Sometimes I’ll turn it off and think how nice and then wonder why I leave it on all the time.

I can usually be found at home. It’s where I’m happiest. At home reading, watching TV, baking, whatever. If it was an option, I’d never leave home.

I am scared of all insects. And mass murderers. And roller-coasters that take you upside down. And that I might still not know what I want out of life when I turn thirty.

I need solitude. And a lot of it. And yet, being around people keeps my energy up. I don’t get it.

I am happy about the upcoming fall season. Both the actual season and the television season.

I imagine what I’d do if I won the lottery. I never actually play.

I tag everyone. That's right.

I wouldn't normally write about my dreams, but this one was about BLOGGERS.

Last night, I dreamt that Marchelle hosted a party for a group of bloggers. Everyone was supposed to bring something, except I didn’t read the invitation thoroughly so I arrived empty-handed and didn’t realize my mistake until people started preparing plates of food for themselves and OH MY GOD, I didn’t bring anything!

I was greeted by a nice woman wearing a big smile who asked my name and, after I replied with “Stephanie,” she looked at my curiously and I thought, oh, my blog name. I told her and she reacted as if I was a celebrity come to grace these lowly homebodies with my presence. It totally made me uncomfortable because who am I and, hello, I forgot to bring food.

I asked about her blog and then felt guilty because I clearly remembered having commented a couple of times, but hadn’t been back in months. So, apparently I’ve been neglecting everybody.

I left shortly after eating (OTHER PEOPLE’S FOOD) and don’t remember much else except that my hair was wet as if I’d taken a shower and I was rushing to attend a wedding, but I couldn’t find the freeway. Somehow I found myself back in front of Marchelle’s house, which was now located IN THE GHETTO, and found my sister’s best friend hyperventilating on the front porch surrounded by paramedics.

I wonder what it all means.

Smoking. And the grim reaper.

This commercial scares me.

[Update June 5, 2016: There used to be a scary smoking commercial here. Pretend it still is. For my sake.]

I've never smoked a cigarette in my life. Not one single puff. Although, I've inhaled enough second-hand smoke that claiming to have "never smoked a cigarette in my life" seems somehow misleading.

My step-dad smoked (smokes) two packs a day. I remember us driving home one night and he had to have a cigarette so bad that he rolled down all the windows, turned up the heat full blast, and lit up. The extreme combination of varying temperatures and cigarette smoke left quite a lasting impression. I don't remember where we were, where we had been, or what we had done... but I will always remember that drive.

My beautiful older sister got caught up in drugs when she was a teenager. One night she stole my mom's car and was thrown into a rehabilitation center. The next morning, as she spoke to my mom over the phone and I waited anxiously nearby, she said she didn't want to talk to me. She was too embarrassed.

She called me ten minutes later.

When I finally got to visit, I hid two of my mom's cigarettes in the bottom of a bag of candy and snuck them into her. And, I admit it... it made me feel cool.

When I was fourteen, I started stealing my parents cigarettes with some harebrained idea that if they thought I was smoking, I could use their worry and concern to negotiate a plan for us all to quit.

It didn't work.

Then there's The Husband. Also a smoker. (Go figure.)

He quit right after our honeymoon. One year later, as we sat in an airport bar waiting to board our flight to Florida where we would celebrate our first anniversary, he told me he had a confession to make. He had been lying to me. He had started smoking again three months ago.

I didn't talk to him during the entire flight.

Smoking is bad, peeps. I've never done drugs either, but I'd smoke pot before a cigarette any day of the week. (I am so not endorsing drugs here, I swear.)

But trust me. Death and the silent treatment? Not worth it.

This is what happens when I impulsively stock up on veggies.

And then decide to live on candy.

The one that always gives my mother a panic attack.

I fell out of a moving vehicle once. I don't remember how old I was. Old enough to know I should have my seat belt fastened. Not old enough to realize what could happen if it wasn't and I FELL OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE.

I don't remember what car my mom was driving at the time. The shit-brown Nova? Or the shit-brown Datsun that she could backfire on command. And let me tell you, you haven't experienced embarrassment until you've been dropped off at school by your mom in a backfiring piece of shit car.

We were leaving the mall. I was in the front seat, sans seat belt, and, as we made a right turn towards the freeway, there I went. All rolly-polly out of the passenger's side door.

I think I feel worse for the woman in the car behind us who had to slam on her breaks to avoid slamming into me. I mean, I walked away perfectly fine, just a skinned elbow to show for it. That woman, on the other hand... you know she still sees me in her sleep.

Sadly, there's no point to this story. My sister wrote about an experience she had while cutting off some nice Utahans recently which got me thinking of bad drivers. Bad drivers made me think of my mother. And, oh, remember that time I fell out of the car?

It's kind of like the circle of life... but with more cursing.

Maybe I just need an energy drink.

Most of the time, I try to keep things around here relatively lighthearted. This is not going to be one of those times. (Fair warning and all.)

I'm in a funk, peeps. Have been for the last couple of weeks. And I have no idea what's causing it or what to do about it.

I was happy. Totally, normally, happy and content. And then someone flipped a switch. At least, that's the best way I can think to describe it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not suddenly crying into my cheerios every morning and I recognize the fact that I have nothing, nothing, to be morose about.

It just feels as if I'm walking around with ten pound weights on each shoulder. Ten pounds ain't much, I'll grant you that. It's just enough to make me want to stop and rest. (All effing day long.) Just enough to make me too tired and too sore to want to participate in anything extracurricular.

The only activities I'm interested in are reading, watching TV, and browsing the internet.

Take pictures? Not now.

Bake? Maybe later.

Everything else? Yawn.

On the other hand... watch six straight hours of True Blood? Spend two browsing YouTube? Read for four as soon as my eyes open? Those I can do. Those I'm happy to do.

Well, happy might be a stretch. Happy might take too much energy as of late.

And... I must admit... I'm especially irritable and impatient. An awesome combination while you're trying to, oh, I don't know, LIVE IN THE REAL WORLD.

I've tried baking. I hoped that doing something normal would stimulate me enough to get out of this funk. Halfway through a batch of chocolate chip cookies, I lost interest and put the dough in the fridge.

And God forbid anyone ask me to do something that might interrupt my plans of NOTHING. As soon as I start to hear a sentence or question that hints at such a thing, I start to shut down.

Go outside? Around people? But... but why??? I don't want to! Why can't you just let me stay inside and BE HAPPY!? You hate me, don't you?

I don't actually say the words out loud because I realize I might come across as, well, a crazy person... but I confess to having thought them once or twice in the last couple weeks.

I can hear you right now feeling sorry for my husband, don't think I can't. I'd feel sorry for him, too, but... too much energy and all that.

I feel like I should be able to tell myself to snap out of it, shrug it off, STOP BEING SUCH A DOWNER...

I'd rather watch a movie and have a bowl of ice cream.

It was more appropriate then.

Fifteen years ago, these were my favorites. I read them over and over and over again. I probably thought these books changed my life, too. And today I'm still choosing my reading material from the "young adult" section.