Too serious? Blame the PMS

Each month I spend exactly two days eating every piece of chocolate I can get my hands on, and whining about how I'm going to die alone. I do this whining primarily to Jake, because he has more patience for my drama queen antics than most people.

I'm listening to sappy music right now, after a particularly long hula hooping session, and pondering Jake's eternal words of wisdom from today's freakout.

The funny thing is, I'm not terribly concerned with having someone in my life right now. In all the ways that matter, I love my life. I have a job that pays me to write. I have a sweet freelance gig. I have a cheap rent stabilized two-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side and a roommate I love. I have my health. I have the best friends a girl could hope for and two seriously awesome kittens.

Here's the thing that freaks me out, though. Not having someone when I'm 60. Being that lonely old lady with the cats who dies in her apartment and no one notices for a week. If like, God, could swing by and just say, "Jess, seriously? Pull it together. You won't die alone. There will be a dude there the first time you fall and break a hip, okay? How do I know? Hello? I'm fucking God." then I'd chill. But that's probably not going to happen.

Okay, that's the end of my drama queen rant. Well, there might be another one tomorrow. But definitely not on Thursday. Right now, there's a box of Ring Dings that needs my attention.