Somewhere inside me, there is a post bursting to be written. It's about the complicated things that have been happening to me lately: the status of mine and Zack's relationship, his status with his new friend, Kirsten, a petite, blond Wal*Mart cashier whose existence was carefully hid from me for a period of time still uncertain to me, my status with Kirsten...or, since such a status does not, in actuality, exist, my status with the idea of her...my status with myself, in relation to her. My status with the law, an impending conviction of driving with a suspended license, the hypothetical assault charges that one aforementioned Kirsten would file if one aforementioned status between one aforemention me and her did exist. My status with my job, Zack's possible new job, health insurance, vaginismus. Insecurity. Justification of insecurity: real, or imagined? Writing. Not writing. Wanting to write. Neglecting to live up to my potential. Neglecting to live in general. Weight loss. Weight gain. Water weight. A card with a bubble-heart picture on it and a blank inside, with no writing in it. Not writing. Wanting to write. School. Projects. Stress. Cortisol. Estrogen. Progesterone. Sex drive. Sex. Vaginismus. Insecurity. Kirsten.

Me.


But I got on my new exercise bike earlier and pedalled until it told me I'd burned 200 calories, and, to be truthful, I didn't really have 200 to spare. It would take way more calories than I have left to write about all that, and many many more to toss and turn all night having thought about all that, so I think I'll instead settle for the peppy one-liner that has just occured to me, hoping that it's witty enough to distract people (Myself.) from the the fact that this post is an impotent attempt at writing (Not writing.) and that I am (Water weight. Blank inside. Vaginismus. Me.) too tired (Neglecting to live.) to put forth the effort. (Insecurity.)


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If a hypochondriac reads and article about hypochondria, does he think he has it?



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On with it.