Worst Day.

It is 79 degrees, every single one of them gorgeous. The sun is blazingly beautiful. A slight breeze ensures there is great little surf.

I am at work. Officially in the worst mood imagineable. In addition to being banished from enjoying the ideal spring day, I am acutely aware of the rumbling undercurrent that is characteristic of a soon-to-come domestic dispute. Per usual, I have no idea what it may be about.

I just ate a personal pan pizza and breadsticks, otherwise known as enough fat and calories to sustain a small family for three days. My hope for the big 20 pound weight loss number at tomorrow morning's weigh-in was obliterated in a single lunch hour. I only feel worse.

Despite my attempts to combat said mood with a dress, cowboy boots, and my favoritey fave accessory (stretchy belt), I still feel as though I will most likely commit homicide before end of day. Watch out, customer who returns $800 of ugly shit you bought online... you could be the victim of my next rage-aholic outburst.