I was alarmed when I came home today and saw that his head had turned pink. It took me a while to remember that his medicine is pink, and if his head is pink, then clearly he has been drinking the medicine. Or dipping his head in the dish-- close enough. (Hey, he's got one brain cell. I'll take what I can get.)

He doesn't seem to understand the concept of sitting his fluffy blue ass still, which is what I would like for him to be doing. Get rest and drink plenty of fluids. Instead, he's spending all of his time trying to get out of his new cage and into his old cage. Since he is, in fact, stupid little Pigwidgeon, his methods are less than effective.

I've got a ladder in there for him-- he recently showed an aptitude for climbing it, and since it was the first time he had ever shown an aptitude for anything whatsoever (I mean seriously--he falls when he walks, he crashes when he flies, he gets confused by toys, he can't do anything) I encouraged it. But he's not satisfied with where this particular ladder goes-- it doesn't take him into Phoebe's cage and therefore it sucks. So he gets to the top and tries to climb up even higher, where rungs don't exist. And so he falls off. It's like a game of chutes and ladders in there. Waddle waddle, thunk. Waddle waddle, thunk.

It's partially funny, and partially sad, really. I may be able to help Pigwidgeon get over his cold, but I can't save him from his own stupidity.

I went and spent money this weekend on a bunch of stuff I don't need. I'm usually fairly responsible with money, but sometimes I need some retail therapy, and this was one of those times. I don't have an excuse for why, even. I haven't been working too too hard, there's been no trauma... I just got tired of not buying myself anything, I guess.

For instance, right now I am listening to The Eminem Show on my brand new computer speakers. The music sounds great; these speakers are fabulous. I have had the crappiest of crappy speakers on my computer since I first got it. I finally went shopping and now I have pretty speakers and a subwoofer. No idea what a subwoofer is or what it does, but I haven't had a sound system this good in years. Pretty sad, but true.

I also bought an optical scroll mouse. The mouse glows every time I move it, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. But the most important thing is that it has a scrolling wheel. I love love love it!

Yeah, it doesn't take much, that's for sure.

I had to put on my fat jeans today. I am traumatized by this.

I slithered into my fresh-from-the-dryer skinny jeans after work, before heading out to do some tutoring. However, after running a couple of errands, I realized that I couldn't exactly "breathe" in the traditional sense, and I had to change. Into the dreaded fat jeans.

I guess this is me paying for the french fries and the scrambled eggs and the entire pizza that I had the other day. This is me paying for "reintroducing sugar gradually into my diet" by making sugar my first and only basic food group. This is me paying for not keeping a food journal, for being lax about snacking at work, and for only going riding six times this month. Ack!

Don't get me wrong. I don't have any deep desire to be significantly thinner than I already am-- which may seem ridiculous to some people, since by most standards being a size eighteen makes me a cow. But it makes me feel like a sexy, healthy cow, and I am happy being that size.

On the other hand, I want to fit comfortably into my jeans, and I do not like wearing jeans that are not size eighteen. The fat jeans make me bitter. A new regime is starting up again tomorrow-- I am thinking a food journal, and making more of an effort to fit biking into my schedule. (I do go when I can, it's just been tricky to fit it in this month.)

In the meantime, I have to wear my fat jeans, which are saggy and baggy and make me feel gross. (Incidentally, I have to see sodding Ian tomorrow at registration, and I have to wear the fat jeans instead of the "fuck you, I'm a hottie" jeans. This makes me also bitter.)

At the same time, I remember that for three years or so, these so-called "fat jeans" were the pair that I was dreaming of squeezing myself into. I don't want to get complacent about it, but I am still significantly thinner than I used to be, and much happier, and that isn't exactly a tragedy.

Pigwidgeon has now decided that he's no longer melancholy-- he's pissed off. He's still making the disturbing squeaky noises (and is therefore still sick) but he's also figured out how to upend his food and water dishes. Every time I turn my back, there goes the birdseed-- into my drawers, onto my file cabinet, and all over the floor. Delightful.

I'm almost out of medicine because he keeps knocking the water dish over too-- clearly, we're going to need a bigger boat. I'm going to go and get a different type of water dish and another bottle of medicine, and I think I'm going to start tying them to the bars somehow. (The dishes, not the birds. Hee.)

I mean if I can't outwit one incompetent bird, I may as well give up now.

"The other day, I put in earplugs because the bird alarms were driving me totally insane. Of course, I ended up sleeping until one in the afternoon. So maybe... they have a point."