Inside Gigi's World

Ah, Wednesday, you filthy bastard. Here we are again. The mid-point to the week with an ever growing list of things that needed to get done like yesterday and I am sitting in my college’s D.C (dining commons) with toothpicks forcing my eyes to stay open.

I know I should be eating healthier. I’m in my forties now. I have started the most wonderful journey known as perimenopause and I eat like a complete trash dumpster but as I am dawdling through the cafeteria, the salad is screaming “Fuck no!” while the Lucky Charms from the cereal bar are begging for consumption.

I should be doing work. The key words here are “should” and “work”. Instead I am plugging information into a blank document trying to create a (somewhat) decent cover letter for a resume that reads like an eclectic list of random jobs and skills that have done little for me the last twenty years. Maybe I’m being dramatic. I don’t think so but maybe.

Instead the little default mode network in my frontal, temporal, and parietal lobes has 3,647 ideas shooting off like fireworks on the Fourth of July—some are duds, some are loud, some are purple, some are green, other mistakenly take the four of the five fingers of the poor drunk bastard that has lit the wicks— and all at once, so I can’t figure out where I am supposed to be looking.

So instead I put on a streaming service, pull up another random docuseries about yet another serial killer (there really are too many of these kinds of shows which terrifies me and makes me never want to leave my house again) and do anything and everything…ya know, other than work.

Things I would rather do than school work?

You asked that at the most opportune time.

Sleep.

Perhaps read a book that isn’t assigned for a course.

I’d love to go for a walk and listen to some good ol’ gangsta rap on my headphones.

Perhaps a smoke would be nice.

I could be watching reruns of Jerry Springer and Muary Povich are always a great source of brain rot. “In the case of baby Joe Jr., Joe Sr., you are NOT the father.” Crowd erupts, mom runs off of stage in disbelief even though this was the 37th Joe she’s had tested on the show in the last 4 months and Joe Sr. (the 37th) jumps around in victory screaming, “I told you! I told you!”

I could be sitting on a golden egg waiting for it to hatch.

I could be tie-dying a whole summer’s worth of cotton t-shirts and tank tops (the hippie that lives inside of my head squeals with excitement and does a happy dance).

A Pap smear perhaps…really anything else resides in my attention span right now so instead I’m creating another post that my three followers will read, I’m watching the horrific re-enacted deaths of 11, nope 12 now, unsuspecting girls who were just trying to make their way home and eating my lunch because what else is lunch time for?