Let me give you the haiku version first.  Still crazy in head.  Pharmaceuticals help some.  Jesus Banana.

Now for the slightly longer, but still appropriate blog length, version:

I no longer see the sun.  I leave for work and its dark.  I come home from work and its dark.  This is a problem as I require sunlight in order to function/remain not dangerously crazy.  So, my body is rebelling.  How? you ask.  Well, its decided it no longer requires sleep.  This is never a good sign.  Not sleeping is a precursor to stabbing people totally legal activities.  Another bad sign?  Not eating.  Of course not eating has another, less violent, side effect… sweet, sweet, weight loss.  Primarily in my breasts.  And there’s nothing a girl wants more than smaller breasts!

Here’s the thing about having an anxiety disorder, it sucks.  I wake up with my heart pounding, my muscles cramped, my jaw sore from grinding my teeth.  Lame.  BUT, don’t despair for me, there is an upside!  And here it is, I am so fucking productive when I’m anxious.  Maybe productive isn’t the right word.  What’s it called when you accomplish lots of shit that doesn’t actually need to be accomplished?  That’s what I do when I’m in a particularly panicky state.  Its truly scary.  See, when a person wakes up in the middle of the night and is in the throes of a panic attack she will not be falling back to sleep for an extended period of time.  Fact:  There is nothing good on television at 2:00 in the morning.  So, what is a girl to do?  Well, obviously the logical thing is to read all sorts of obscure and random stuff so that she can shock her husband with her awesome useless knowledge.  For example, today Ben and I had the following conversation:

Ben: How was your day?

Jill: Did you know that a coyote in Maine was found to be 89% wolf?

Ben: Huh.  Okay.

Jill: And 22% of coyotes in Maine are part wolf?

Ben: Oh.

Jill: And 90% of Maine is forested?

Ben: Lets just say you know more about Maine than I do.

Jill: And wolves.  And coyotes.

And then Ben cried because I am so much more awesome than he is.  So, I made him this to cheer him up.

And that is why being crazy is awesome. Except for the smaller breasts. You can’t win them all.

This is not because I don’t love my friends deeply, this is just the way Jesus made me, and who am I to question Jesus?  My friends, however, collectively hate Jesus and refuse to accept this reasoning and as a result I end up apologizing.  A lot.  My stock apology is as follows:

I am so sorry (insert name).  I love and care about you, I’ve just been busy this last week which is why I missed your call regarding the tragic death of your family pet.  I have a lot of mental issues that require large chunks of time spent alone analyzing small and insignificant portions of my day and it doesn’t always leave time for checking my voicemail.  You look really pretty today though, have I mentioned that?  Because you do, it really can’t be overstated how pretty you look.  You should probably take your top off.

By the end of the apology my friend is frightened and disoriented, and accepts my apology simply because she’s now desperate to exit this situation.  The compliments and sexual come on work to take the focus away from the initial incident that made said friend angry, and put the focus on the current situation that is making said friend uncomfortable.  Its kind of my signature move.

This brings me to my next point.  I am also horrible at commenting on the blogs that I read.  Again, this is not because I don’t adore those blogs, its because I AM NOT INTERESTING.  I put that in all caps because I thought it added some interest to the fact that I’m not interesting.  I used to be awesome at blog comments, meaning that if I read it, I commented.  Now, I am awful.  I read a billion blogs every.single.day. and comment maybe once a month.  As a blogger I feel shitty about this.  As the kind of person who is too lazy to check her voicemail, I’ve accepted it.  Even when I used to comment, my comments were awful.  I require a lot of time to come up with offensive witticisms.  Case in point, it just took me about 20 minutes to think of the word witticism.  So, to everyone in my blogroll, an apology:

I am so sorry (insert name).  I love and care about you, I’ve just been busy reading your blog last week, which is why I ran out of the time required to think of a comment.  I have a lot of mental issues that require large chunks of time spent alone analyzing every little thing I say on your blog.  It is paralysis, by analysis.  You understand, don’t you?  You look really pretty today though, have I mentioned that?  Because you do, it really can’t be overstated how pretty you look.  You should probably take your top off.

And now onto the last item today on my List of Things at Which I Am Horrible:  You know that saying, What’s good for the gander is good for the goose?  I hate that saying.  Because, see, even though I don’t always answer Mary’s calls, my feelings get hurt when she doesn’t answer mine.  And you know how I am awful at commenting?  I get insecure when my posts don’t get comments.

In conclusion, something something something.*

*I’m also horrible at coming up with tidy endings for my posts.

Long story short, my funny weekend recap is not to be.  Here in its stead is a not so funny, but rather pretty factual weekend recap.

Friday:  Worked late at the office.  Night in with The Husband.  No crying yet.

Saturday:  Went to the animal shelter.  Crying begins.  Ben quietly ushers me out of the animal shelter.  Go to the county fair.  Meet up with friends.  Have fun.  Go back to friend’s house.  Play in Slip n’ Slide.  Eat dinner.  Have cake.  Go home.  Minimal crying.  The Husband reassures me of his continuing love despite all of the running mascara.

Sunday:  Crying.  Crying.  Eat breakfast while crying.  Iron husband’s shirt for his trip, get out wrinkles but create tear stains.  Walk Ben to the door and cry.  Say a tear-soaked goodbye.  Come back to couch, assume fetal position, and cry.  Write this post while making my keyboard wet with salty, salty lady tears.

So kids, that’s where we are today.  I am incapable of being witty or amusing at the moment due to severe dehydration and hormonal overload.  Please hug me and tell me its all going to be okay.  And also?  Tell me that the older dog I saw at the animal shelter yesterday will definitely be adopted by someone who has enough space for a big dog and will not in fact be euthanized.  Or justify for me why its okay to go and adopt the gigantic older dog despite the fact that I don’t have enough space for it, and also that Ben may join me in the crying if he comes home to this dog.  In return for your support, here’s a picture: