Baked Cheetos and paying the bills

They've finally done it....they have bestowed upon me, with glorious bounty, the baked Cheeto. Behold, the heavens opened and the perfect orange powdered snack food was born.
I ate about 1500 baked Cheetos yesterday and despite my shower and the rain this morning, my fingertips are still slightly orange tinted. Heavenly.
I've been thiking a lot lately, which is rarely a good thing. I arrived home at 4:30, sat down on the hurty futon, where I remained for most of the evening until I finally peeled myself off at half passed eleven. I'm on my period, ok? and yesterday was "that day." The day when you feel pale and faint and vaguely victorian in your need to lie around fanning yourself, helpless and "not well." The day when your stomach feels like the Orc-making factory beneath Isengard. (DORK!) I watched a lot of t.v. and was suddenly filled with dread. What am I doing with my life? Is this all there is? Am I better than this? (Is the building I work in going to collapse and kill us all?) I need more money. I wish I were thinner. I want some more cheetos. I was I was a better musician. I wish I had more time. I wish Lars would come home. I wish our laundry room was finished so I could stop recycling underpants and t-shirts. I hate this zit on my chin. We have to order a wedding cake. I wonder when our invitations will arrive. I wish we had a car. I wish we had more money. I wish the house was perfect. I wish Stan would stop stepping on my boob. I wish I could get off the couch. I have to pee. Too lazy to pee.
It sort of went on like that all night until I stumbled upon a documentary about Harvey Milk and cried myself to sleep.