My hate/love relationship with Rascal Flatts

I have not written in my blog for awhile. I have not written in it for 18 days. Not that it matters, honestly I don't believe that anyone actually reads it. And if they did, they would have given up after the long absence of my thoughts and voice which has occurred in the last 18 long, and uninteresting days. The reason, my non-existent and imaginary Internet friends, that I have not written in my blog for over two weeks is that I am depressed. Depressed and homesick. Depressed and homesick and stressed. And it turns out that when I am feeling depressed and homesick and stressed, I cannot blog. Nor can I exercise, as I tried in vain to explain to a man who, at 27 years of age and wisdom (and with a notable lack of exposure to Ritalin), cannot sit through a movie, and who's palms get sweaty at the thought of a day without a workout. Nope, all I can do in this stupor of unreasonable unhappiness, it seems, is listen to country music. Those of you who know me (which is none of you, as nobody is reading this blog anyhow) know that if there is one thing I cannot stand, it is country music. Oysters are a close second, but that is beside the point. So there is a bit of cruel irony, I find, that in the depths of my despair, however unfounded and silly that despair may be, my greatest comfort is the twang of a banjo, and a song about country fried chicken, or something equally as vomit-inducing. Rascal Flatts and Taylor Swift are this moment's muses, and it sickens me. Perhaps this love of redneck music is merely a not-well-thought-out substitution for all the things I miss about the USofA. Maybe its my rebound sex, satisfying but not doing any good in the long run. Also I have stopped eating. I mean, not entirely stopped, but definitely cut down, for no good reason but to feel hungry. Which isn't good for my health or frame of mind, but is damn good for my WW results. My only immediate hope is that the pole dancing classes I start in June will give me an outlet, and that I can figure out what the hell is wrong with me, so I can stop crying to Faith Hill and start enjoying things again. After all, I'm in London. I'm making money, I'm making friends, going to clubs, and have knocked off a good 10lbs thanks to anor-sexy-a, so I should be set to blog.