Sunday Night

I have the 50th anniversary of Saturday Night Live.  Yeah, we watched it as kids.  We were edgy kids.  No, we didn't understand it.  We laughed at stuff we probably shouldn't have.  It was an alternative to watching the Saturday night movie that we didn't understand like Raquel Welch in Kansas City . . . I can't remember the name.  She was on roller blades.  It was cool.  That's all that I remember.

I thought about skipping my weigh in because I held out no hope this morning, but I got surprised when I did.  I was down and then I remembered I was up a tiny bit so it was better.  Good weeks.  Bad weeks.  Take it with a grain of salt.  Not too much salt though.

I finally get my hair colored on Tuesday afternoon.  It'll be nice to take a break from the madness.  I even found my bag of change I couldn't find for the parking meter.

I saw RFK Jr already going in on anti-depressants.  I'm not sure what category mines fall under.  I don't think me playing in the dirt is going to help me on a wellness farm.  Nobody wants to be on them.  Here we go again, treating people with depression issues as freaks.  

I want to stay in bed and eat chocolate all day when I'm down and snuggle with my cat.  I don't put animals in a blender to feed my hawk.

If I'm a freak, I wear that badge proudly.  

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