WriteOut of Her Mind

I have a few tell-tale signs of a full moon rising that are based solely on my behaviour, thus, I’d like to apologize to my beloved Carpenter for the volatile week.

Four-eyes. Remember when that was the kind of insult that burned?

With Valentine’s Day upon us, I am reminded that I really don’t enjoy this romantic pseudo-holiday tradition, despite being very much in love with my spouse, the Carpenter.

I am so excited for this weekend I’m not sure how I’ll get through the next few days with any focus, except that of wishing time would fly faster, because this coming weekend promises several rough spectator sports, like watching the Carpenter sit through the Super Bowl. 

Rejection is a part of life that, in my experience, can make you or break you. It’s your choice. 

The best defence is a good offence, they say, so this is my defence for why I placed third-last in my inaugural NFL Pool contest: I had no idea what I was doing. 

Don’t rush to judgement on this, but every night since Christmas I’ve gone to bed with Geddy Lee, the lead singer of Canadian rock band Rush.

I began writing this column from my bed a week ago, propped up with pillows, tucked between my flannel polar bear sheets and my duvet.

Monday mornings are sacred to me, much like Sundays are for most.

No, I didn’t get a Toyota 4Runner. Yes, I’m angry about it. Sure, I’ll get over it, eventually.

Oh my goodness, we’re getting close now. Christmas is right over there. I can feel it. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that I took care of the contents of my own stocking, because the Carpenter wouldn’t dare (it still rhymes).

Hey Santa, I thought you and I  had something special. 

There are two things I will experience every Christmas season without fail: mixed nuts and mixed emotions.

It’s fair to say that when it comes to communication by text (or any other form of written conversation, or like, conversation in general), my spouse, the Carpenter, is monosyllabic.