I’m Only A Little Nuts

Welcome to the next episode in “My Life is a Bad Romance Novel”. Let’s try this chronologically because there’s a sh*t-ton of crap I gotta get out this time.

First, I’ve started eating chocolate for breakfast. Why? Turns out that chocolate is good for you – dark chocolate – for your brain…if you eat it before 9am. It keeps your mind active and keeps you from overeating later on in the day.

And it works! My brain is like an energy drink on crack. It’s like functioning non-stop from about half an hour after I get up until around 11pm or midnight, and I’m not even hungry in the afternoon–unless I don’t get enough sleep. If I don’t, I’m a sleepy-blob all day long.

No one likes a sleepy-blob. Get enough sleep! I cannot stress this enough. If you’re not getting enough sleep, your body won’t get sh*t in gear! And we need sh*t in gear.

Of course, my friend says my increased brain activity from my chocolate breakfasts is a placebo effect. He thinks everything is a placebo effect, though, probably including the swollen ankle I got from falling four meters to a gravel plot πŸ˜€

Yup. I was ten meters in the air, climbing nets and balancing on wooden beams like a boss, and then when my friend on the ground was lowering me down on my rope, he pulled the brake lever all the way back, as in not braking me at all because, you know, he thinks I’m superwoman and can fly, only I’m not, and I can’t (least not yet; I’m working on it), so I freefell halfway down. Whoo!

Apparently, I find things like being hurt funny, because I was laughing as the horrified instructor kept trying to help me up and I kept falling down. My friend said it was very disturbing. (Or else he said I’m disturbing.)

I still hobbled around for about five hours after that, though. We ended up in Old Town Square with ice cream dripping over our fingers (mmm, chocolate salt caramel!) and we each gave twenty crowns to a panhandling lady in a gold cone princess hat, a gold gown, and with all-gold-painted skin, in exchange for a fortune drawn from her gold-painted wicker hand basket.

Mine read: “A single step begins the journey of a thousand miles. Take that step, no matter how small it will be, in the next seven days.”

I looked down at my swelling ankle. A journey of a thousands miles?

Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

The next morning, my ankle had grown. It had decided to get ugly, and since I had to go to the hospital for a yearly checkup anyway, I popped into the emergency room while there. I got both feet x-rayed and nothing, nada: no break, no fracture – so said the doctor when they sent me in to her.

Interesting that the official diagnosis on paper for my intensely swelling ankle was “female infertility”. Apparently, it’s easy mix up N979 and S959 (ankle trauma). Or else this doctor knew mystical things she wasn’t telling when she looked at my ankle.

As consolation, I got ten kilos (22 lbs) of nuts. Ain’t no way I was carrying those nuts home with Old Hobble-Foot, though, so I roped in the friend who dropped me at the rope center to carry them home for me. (I also tried to persuade the demon-slayer writers’ group member to help us, but the demon slayer has a loftier purpose to fulfill than to carry my nuts. I’m offended. Yeah, I’m only a little nuts.)





Okay, I’m okay now.

This might be why my ex finally wrote me that he was going to come over and pick up one of his boxes, but didn’t end up showing.

And this AFTER I swept the flat twice, mopped once, swept again, cleaned the cat litter, wiped down my bed, changed the sheets, washed the toilet, wiped the bathroom mirror, shaved my legs, did three loads of laundry, washed the dishes, wiped the counters, brushed the cats, and swept again.

Of course he wouldn’t show. It’s just another notch in the ceaseless tale of the failed romance heroine.

Honest to God, though, the thought of him coming to get his stuff depresses me. I’ve had it longer than we were even together. The thought of it being gone is like cutting the last ties completely. Some days, it sounds freeing, but other days, it terrifies me. Like it’ll make it really real, even though it is really real already.

Yeah, that last paragraph doesn’t even make sense. I’m not even sure I want to know what’s going on in my head. I just poke at it occasionally and am satisfied that it grunts back.

One of my writers’ group members was probably right when she once told me, “You know, Sonya, you look sweet and put-together, but really you’re like a factory. Cute fuzzy bunnies go inside, but what comes back out…”

And this is where that factory started, guys. Me, at five:


That’s a girl planning to get her sh*t together, move to Prague, eat chocolate for breakfast after forty, be stood up by the ex who already ditched her, and write insanely long books πŸ˜€

And on that note, here’s some random sh*t I thought this week:

  • How did that poppy seed get in my nose?
  • *me looking at my swollen ankle compared to my normal ankle* I always thought my calves were large. Now I realize my ankles are too tiny. That swollen one looks a nice respectable size.
  • Also, I think my swollen ankle is a nanny. It starts hurting insanely around midnight and sends me to bed.

And hold your horses! [Yeah, I’m originally from Texas so get over it :-P] I might try my luck on the dating site tonight. Wish me luck in coming out sane on the other side (I know, that’s kinda hard, considering I’m not even sane going in, but a woman can hope).

Oh, and big lesson for you this week: Hold on in the bus / metro / train / tram! If you don’t, you may lose your balance when the bus / metro / train / tram starts off down the road / tracks and you could step on someone’s poor swollen ankle!

Also, don’t laugh at them afterward or they’re liable to smack you. I know.

Now off you go. And if you must explore my site, don’t read my dystopians. They’re as f*cked up as I am in the head. I’ll unpublish them if I ever get off my lazy butt to bother.

Oh, and I put some new crap up on the Patreon and made it public so all the peeps of the world can see it, with an excerpt from Heiress of Rebellion – or, as I write about it “a lovely, wondrous, gorgeous monster of a book and I’m in love”. [Don’t worry. I’ll likely hate it next week.]

Owner of two cats and huge dreams and author of any kind of love story so long as wild stuff is going on...

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Sonya Lano

Sonya Lano

Owner of two cats and huge dreams and author of any kind of love story so long as wild stuff is going on...

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