That Horrible, Magic Number

I know I've talked about the number; the number where if you get to it on the scale you decide to become anorexic.

I haven't stood on the scale in three weeks. This morning I did and I'm over that number. So not good. I joined Weight Watchers online this morning and am now contemplating, very seriously, everything I put in my mouth.

Tonight is one of those nights where Omar irritates the hell out of me just by breathing. I made one of those frozen meal in a bag dinners tonight that I'm embarrassed to admit I sometimes resort to. It wasn't a lot of food and I said that. He said, "No, no, I'm good. That's more than enough." Then, after dinner, he proceeded to eat half a bag of pistachios. But he also ate them in the loudest, most annoying way possible. I naturally commented on this and he was all, "Well, I had a small lunch and I didn't know I was hungry."

I wanted to smack him. I still sort of do.

But he is kind of cute.

Have a horrible headache and I feel like a whale. So tired and so sick of work and cold weather and now we're supposed to get more snow tomorrow.

Like that obnoxious fucking girl on American Idol during the audition stage, "whatevs."