Ingrate

I woke up this morning with a full-blown chest cold. Again. After a nearly full week of faithful morning gym attendance, I am once more cut down by ill health. Grrrrrr--*cough*. It's getting really old.

And here's something I never thought I'd hear myself say: I've had enough compliments for right now, OK? I slept like crap last night (an inability to breathe is not conducive to restfullness), it hurts to talk, and I'm just not feeling my usual chipper self. But of course when people walk by my office (and my desk is right smack in front of the hallway window) they come in to tell me how much they love my new haircut. And I appreciate it. I really, really do. But I'm tired of having to smile and say thank you yes I've been thinking about it for a while no nothing really inspired me to cut it I just thought it would be fun thanks yes no it doesn't feel too weird and on and on and on.

I feel like a bitch. OK, so sometimes I can be pretty bitchy, but I don't like *being* one. It's the difference between "soy borracha" and "estoy" borracha." And right now I feel very "soy."

Oh my god and someone just walked by the window with a giant cinnamon roll. Well at least they didn't notice my hair.