Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned.

Please let me confess. Let me get a few things off of my chest, just like this bullet bra I purchased when I once counseled sex offenders. You don't need to know all of this, but I figure we're all friends here, n'est-ce pas?

1) First things first. I keep a clothing journal. I know every outfit I have worn for the past two - let's be real - three years. Every day save weekend days. One might think that I keep this journal largely because I'm obsessed with myself (which simple upkeep of this blog does admittedly imply) or for reasons related to the fact that today I actually checked myself out in the office elevator while others were riding with me.

No. This is due to the fact that my matter (I can't remember if it's gray or white right now) is quickly deteriorating; I can hardly remember anything. While I can quickly recall the names of all of Demi and Bruce's children, I struggled recently to explain supply and demand. I forgot whether bludgeoning referred to stabbing or beating (utter blasphemy to the serial killer aficionado). But recognize that I refuse, friends, to wear that beige pencil skirt two weeks in a row. One must remember her priorities.

2) I ate crumbs off of my lap today. Not even a large crumb that surfaced after being lost in the crease of a pant. No no, fair readers, this was a particle of Baked Lays BBQ seasoning (I don't think they even use the entire word barbeque, as I'm pretty sure the FDA doesn't allow them to call ground hoof and snout actual barbeque). Not a chip. Not a flake of a chip. This was a particle of a bit of a twinkle of a chip. And I licked my finger, plucked it off my skirt before it could run away, and savored its goodness.

3) I hate - and by hate, I mean I would pick them last in gym class - those cards with small children photographed in black and white in adult clothes while acting out romantic scenes. They greet each other at the train station with roses while wearing size 12-18 mos. Burberry coats and top hats. He offers her tulips and it makes her widdle in her Pull-Ups. An intern then draws in their rosy cheeks.

It hurts, and you can't really convince me that it doesn't.

4) While we're at it, let it be known that I can't remember the last time I washed my entire back. I can't see it. I can't reach it. Frankly, I don't care all that much about it. Naturally, I ensure its protection by slathering it with sunscreen. But that's primarily due to the fear put into me by that graduation speech crafted by Kurt Vonnegut. Let's be honest with each other: there simply are not enough hours in the day to scour your feet, wash your back, and record what you wore to work that day.

5) And finally, hail Mary, mother of felines: I like one cat better than the other.

I need to go now. Hell is waiting, and the meter for my handbasket is almost up.