But if you were filled with candy, I'm not sure I wouldn't get the bat.

I have an addictive personality. This is a fact.

If I ever get into something, and find myself very interested, or involved, then it becomes rather hard to stop. For example, even as a little kid, whenever I would bring home a new book, I found myself unable to put it down until I finished.

As a result, I would stay up until two in the morning, and when my mom got up in the middle of the night and discovered my light was on, I would rush to make something up such as, "I just got up to go to the bathroom," or "I'm having trouble sleeping."

Well yes. I am having trouble sleeping. Because I'm having issues trying to bring myself to sleep.

Anyway. Back on point. I don't have much free time. Really, I'd like to go to the gym. Even though I have a membership, and truly enjoy going, I can't bring myself to go. Probably because I get dragged into other activities that I can't pull myself away from.

Facebook: I keep checking. Really? No one comments on your photos or anything, and I really doubt that you're going to get another notification in the next half second.

fmylife.com: Sometimes it makes me feel better about my life. And then I realize that I'm spending my time reading about downers in people's lives when I could be living mine.

failblog.org: Same reason as above.

And most recently, and I am ashamed to say it: Viva Piñata.

I've always noticed that I get a little too compulsive about games like the Sims, or other types of "you create a world/farm/house/take care of this thing" games. This is no exception.

They are piñatas. I don't even like piñatas. When ever I had one for my birthday, my dad would always bring the rope up while it was my turn so I always missed. Everyone would laugh at me for missing, and I would be terribly embarrassed and ashamed.

And yet, the concept of building a beautiful little garden filled with the beasts appeals to me.

I'm trying to wean myself off - I've only been playing since last Saturday, but I've already slacked on my work, am alienating my friends, and have started yelling at people when they interrupt me when I'm trying to get a breeding bonus.

I hope I don't get the shakes.

waffles + batter = you're playing baseball all wrong

I've discovered that Potato Bread has a tragic flaw.

When I was buying two loaves last Sunday (not this past Sunday, but the Sunday before that), I was frantically clutching them to my breast while I ran up and down the aisles looking for food-stuffs I would need. Seeing as how I don't have a way to get myself to a grocery store, whenever I find myself at one I am sure to stock up.

As I was checking out, I noticed that in my desperation I had held them a tad too tightly, not unlike a child clinging to the lifeguard as he is learning how to swim. As a result, smack in the middle of both loaves were huge arm-shaped indents.

Oh, that should not be a problem! Right? I'll just kind of stretch it out when the time comes, or use it for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Well, I have gone through the first loaf. Mostly. There are four slices left in the first bag - the end caps, and two squished-beyond-recognition slices with holes in them from me trying to un-squish them.

I'm dreading the middle of the next loaf. I had no idea that potato bread was so sensitive! I don't have a toaster, or I would make toast. I can't use it for grilled cheese, because I don't have a stove - I would have to put it in the grill. This bread is useless to me. Maybe I'll just make peanut butter without the jelly. and force myself to take them for lunch to work.

It will be a sad little sandwich, but I'll cherish my thriftiness as I try to stretch the $70 I have left for food out for another month.

And if I do have to make more grilled cheese, I hope that I don't forget to take out the waffle plates first. As cute as it was, eating a cheese sandwich shaped as a waffle, I thought the bread was too compact. Not fluffy enough to my liking.

....Scratch that. A waffle-cheese sandwich is the second best type of sandwich there is.

It is second only to a peanut butter sandwich cut into the shape of a dinosaur.

But don't we all have some dirty laundry?

Right now mine is in the basket under my bed with some more from this past week in a duffel bag. I have some time today, so I should really do it tonight, and not scrounge around for clean socks until the weekend.

I don't really want to have to carry everything down to the first floor and wait a full hour and a half until my clothes to be clean. Only to find out, of course, that I'm bringing back two socks that I have never seen before and that I am missing three - all of which belong to different partners.

Socks are the hussies of clothing I think.

They aren't faithful to their partners, instead hooking up with any stray sock they can find that remotely looks like themselves. When the subject of commitment comes up, they hitch a ride with the washer and don't come back to town until the whole thing has blown over. Assuming they come back at all.

Maybe they just realized that if they never got out of that hamper they would never get out. Their dreams were always out of reach and they figured that this dirty little crate was holding them back.

From being a self-employed business sock.

Or getting cosmetic surgery - those toe socks always got special treatment.

Or getting their big break as a sock puppet.

Or if dreams really came true, flying in the sky, flapping and clapping as a wind sock.

So they split.

Some come back, their hearts crushed, but a little wiser about the industry.

But the others. Well, I certainly haven't heard from them.

Now patterned socks, they have morals.

I guess we all need a meteor every once and a while.

I totally forgot that I had this blog.

It is about the same as starting a new one, since the last time I blogged was seven months ago and as I'm restarting, I've deleted those posts.

My previous attempt at blogging was mostly an effort of trying to make myself feel more artsy and creative than I actually felt. Seeing as it was forced, and re-reading them I realized that I sounded like a self-centered-basket-of-day-old-trout, I thought it was best to start all over.

I prefer not to sound like that. I regret ever thinking that sounding like trout was a good idea, actually.

Heaven knows I would have hated reading that in the archives. I used the word 'telly' for crying out loud. I'm glad that I found it before anyone else did. It gave me the chance to destroy it.

Thank goodness for small favors.