Truth: I’m in my New York room under the covers, and I’m exhausted but cannot sleep. It’s 4:30 PM, and I should be thinking about a healthy dinner. Something chopped with radishes and tiny cubes of summer squash, a sprig or two of mint or a chiffonade of basil. A lovely tang of dressing. Instead, we’ll be ordering in a pizza, which will, undoubtedly leave me feeling like dough. It won’t be a brickoven thin crust with fresh mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes. It will be hideous. It will be PizzaSlut. I want no part of it, but I’m too fucking tired to go back to the goddamn grocery store with an iPhone shopping list. Again. If I never see a shopping cart again, it will be too soon. Even if miracle of miracles market-fresh goods arrived miraculously at my hot-as-balls-Texan-doorstep, I’d be too damn tired to have my way with any of it. There will be no summer salad, no dicing, and not a jullianed root vegetable in sight. There will instead be complaints.
You know, just because everything that matters becomes illuminated, doesn’t mean you stop giving a shit that it’s hot out. Just because you worry–and you actually have reason this time–doesn’t mean you’re wrong to complain about all the irrelevant crap. I say, go ahead and bitchfest all you want. The thing about life is, there’s always room for more: more celebrations, more casualties, more bad hair days, more booze, and more bitching. I want to bitchslap the knuckleheads who think you’re only entitled to complain when you have "real" problems. Everyone has problems, or makes problems, and some of us bitch about it. Seriously, if you have nothing nice to say, come sit by me. Because right now, I’m a Meredith Brooks song, and all I feel like doing is screaming until I pass out.