I have a confession.

I love Pottery Barn. I want to take the entire store and just set it up in my house. Even the ugly stuff is nice. What is wrong with me?

Fuck You, Diabetes.

Fuck you, diabetes, for picking my life to complicate. I hate you for so many reasons, a handful of which are:

• I can't just eat anything I want, anytime I want because you'll kill me.
• I can't not eat because you'll kill me.
• My abdomen is a polka dotted mess.
• My house/car/office is littered with used test strips.
• My wallet/bank account is lighter because you cost me a fortune every month.
• I rarely sleep through the night because you're so fucking high maintenance.
• I have to buy clothes that will hide/accommodate the tools I need to survive you.
• My husband jokingly refers to me as his "little android" (this one is not so bad, but I'd rather be referred to as his "hot, healthy wife").
• My husband worries about my health.
• I can't leave my house without carrying a suitcase-sized purse filled with supplies to manage you.
• I can't just be tossed into a swimming pool in a playful manner because I'll ruin $10,000 worth of equipment.
• I'm exhausted from fighting with you all the time.
• Everyday, when I take a shower, I catch the loofah on my infusion set. Everyday. Single. Day.
• You've ruined countless dinners out, vacations, holidays, parties, and meetings because you're so damned unpredictable.
• I have to think about you 24 hours a day.
• I spent my first wedding anniversary feeling like shit because you decided to curse me with an inexplicable 400 mg/dl blood sugar.
• And, most of all, I fucking hate you for making it so hard for me to have a baby.

I can't wait for the day when a cure kicks your ass. Until then, fuck you, diabetes.