broken hearted

I made these awesome muffins that were delicious in batter form and smelled amazing while baking. Looked good, too, when I pulled them out of the oven. But turns out they are filled with completely uncooked batter, which, contrary to logical inference, actually doesn't taste as good when encased in a muffin crust-shell. I should have just eaten the bowl of batter with a spoon and called it a night. Now I have a dozen uncooked muffins that I don't know what to do with. I had two today, after nuking 'em for a minute and smothering them with honey butter. They're actually decently pleasant-tasting. But now, an hour later, my stomach is doing a weird little rumbly dance, and I'm a little uncomfortable in the abdominal region. Goddamnit if I still can't bring myself to throw the rest away.

Things are just not going my way... In other news, I cracked a beautiful, expensive-looking pitcher of unknown origin (probably irreplaceable) belonging to the man whose home I'm subletting. It had been a while since I felt that guilt-induced burning-on-the-back-of-your-neck you get when you're totally in trouble for doing something stupid. That feeling always sucked. I should have been more of a rebel and less of a teacher-pleaser in grade school so I could maybe enjoy some nostalgia during times like these, instead of feeling horrified, like I'm about to go to the principle's office. Crying.

I have sadly lost the ability to go ten minutes without spilling entire glasses of water across the apartment, on my face, or down my shirt. I think I was able to go a full fifteen minutes before, so it's going downhill. It might be a premature age-related clumsiness, as I ever so slightly approximate 30.

Also, I've been here three weeks already and still begin sweating and stuttering when spoken to in French. I am convinced that everyone around me either a) hates me because I don't know their language and they assume I am an asshole, or b) thinks I'm retarded.

Finally, my roommate may be allergic to me. Since we started sharing a car, house, bed, and work space (I forgot to mention, I have a husband now), she's gotten all itchy and her eyes water for no reason. I think there's too much Lauri-dander in the apartment. Or she's developed an allergy to round-the-clock charm. Either way, I can't help but feel guilty.