Love in an elevator

I got stuck in an elevator while I was at work today. And... there was no love to be found. That song makes it seem like an elevator is such a pleasant place to be.  It's quite misleading. Steven Tyler is a jerk.

Moving on...

Inside my twisted little brain, I've been comparing myself to Carrie from Sex and the City. Clearly, we have a lot of similarities. For instance, she writes about everyday life, friends, and love... and that's what I aim to do in this blog. She lives in a busy New York city and I live in Ohio, by some really exciting cornfields. She has mounds upon mounds of the latest fashions in her dresser drawers and mine are filled with mounds upon mounds of thrift store t-shirts. Since I've found SO many similarities between us, I'm thinking that soon I'm going to find my own version of Mr. Big. And when I say my own version, I mean someone much better looking than hers. He was the strangest looking leading man of a show geared toward female audiences that I have ever seen. Oh, and by the way... I don't really watch Sex and the City and I only just recently realized the significance of it's title. I got HBO for the first time last year. Now I understand.

To close, I think I have a real problem. I'm a chocoholic. I know that term is used quite loosely these days, but by definition, it truly does apply to my lifestyle. Even my health is effected.

To put this into perspective, imagine seeing a piece of chocolate on the passenger side floor board of your vehicle, reaching over (while still in drive) to see if it's in any way, shape, or form salvageable, only to be disappointed when you recognize it as a dried piece of mud that fell off of your softball cleats. This is the life that I live.