um, well, huh

---DISCLAIMER: This post needs some serious editing. As in, someone should probably just delete the whole, sorry mess. But, NO, I started a challll-ennnnge. I'm posting every single day. Awesome, Emy. Have a house point. Secondly, upon rereading my work, it has come to my attention that I may need to be medicated. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.---

It would seem I have nothing to post about at the moment. Well, actually, I'm sure I could come up with plenty (not that any of it would be particularly relevant, interesting, or useful - though when is it ever?), only here's the thing: I don't feel like it. That's right, I'm not in the mood to wade through ideas, choose one to write about, find images to go along with it. I'm not feeling particularly clever or witty or kind or insightful. I'll tell you where to put your wisdom, buddy!

What I am feeling is kind of fat. Even though I did yoga and know logically that a) I am not fat, and b) it shouldn't ultimately matter, as it doesn't have anything to do with what kind of person I am or my brilliance or capabilites blah blah blah. (Wait, hear that? It's the sound of Gloria Steinem rallying the Guerilla Girls.) Probably it's because I ate a lot of cheese today. And also a Samoa. I was reaching for a second one when I gave myself a stern talking to that went something like: "OK, it's time to own up. You need to look at the calories; stop avoiding it." So I held the shiny, happy box, trying to decide if I should just eat the stupid cookie or actually see what was in the tasty morsels I've been What-About-Bob-ing as of late.

There are 150 calories and 8 grams of fat in just two measly cookies.

Normally I am not a calorie counter (duh, if I have to YELL at myself to even check the nutrition facts and eat shredded cheddar by the BOWLFUL), but there are only three Samoas left in the box after just three days. I consumed 600 calories-worth of chocolatey coconut goodness on the first day alone, in a span of less than 15 minutes. And it's not like I'll run it off, ever, because first the snow would have to melt, and also I would have to undergo a lobotomy. (I don't enjoy running. Although, a few summers ago, I did follow this marathon training plan for some reason, before I remembered that I wasn't actually running any marathons in the near future ever, and that riding my bike is about a thousand times more fun. Maybe the endorphins were clouding my judgement during this phase, which, let's face it, was mainly a poorly veiled attempt to lose ten pounds, brought on by a copy of Runner's World I found in the seat pocket in front of me on an airplane that got me all "inspired" or some such crap.)

As is now plainly evident, I was right to begin with: I have nothing to write about.

So, uh, enjoy this painting!

It's the Venus of Urbino 1538 by Tizziano Vecellio.

Once, as a joke, I used GIMP to insert my face over Ms. V of U's and gave a printout of the final product to Andy. It was excellent. (And if that doesn't make you feel awkward, know that my mom saw me working on it and we laughed and laughed.)
 
Also, sidenote: doesn't it look like the girl in the background is puking into the trunk? I think that every time I see this. (I almost wrote "chest" instead of trunk, but the teenage boy in me thought that was funnier than it should be, and I didn't want the teenage boy in you to get too distracted. You know, from looking at a naked woman reading this post.)

Yep, still nothing. G'night!

[6/30 complete]