I don’t like to squirm. It’s not in my nature to skirt issues with paranoia on the brain. Yes, I worry about things. I can bring inanimate objects to life with my concern over their well-being. Yes, I can conjure up unlikely scenarios and fret over them until something or someone steers me straight. But, unreasonable paranoia? I didn’t think so. I didn’t think I had it in me. And yet, someone was able to rattle my cage last week.
I have come to realize you are nothing more than a stuffed shirt. You are bloated with the self-importance that comes from an unreasonable ego. Keep it up and you will rot from the inside out. Maybe you already have. People should shy away from the stink of your insincerity; laugh at your sensitivity behind your back. I am embarrassed that you had me so worried. I cannot believe I was so consumed by your worthless feelings. Who cares that you were bent out of shape? In the grand scheme of things who cares about offending you?
There is one good thing that came out of this frustration – a good, hard run. Twenty minutes before pizza me, myself and moi took to the gerbil and ran 2.25 miles. True, it was only twenty minutes and directly afterwards I stuffed myself with roasted red pepper pizza topped with feta cheese. But, the run itself was awesome. Rob Thomas kept me company, singing about being unwell and diseased. I sang along, letting every bitter thought ooze out of me like the sweat that trickled down my back. This was the first run I had to myself. By the time it was all said and done I was done with Stuffed Shirt.