Because it was one of those days that you spend trying not to resent other people's happiness (even though you should be content because you just got into grad school) while attempting to mentally draft a cover letter for your application for the graduate assistantship you hope to get so you can actually afford to go to graduate school, but self-promotion has never been your strong suit and the part of your brain responsible for drafting said cover letter keeps getting overpowered by the voice that is constantly shouting about how you are 29 and single and will probably die alone and eaten by Alsatians after spending your golden years yelling at the TV, eating frosting straight out of the container, and ballooning to 330 lbs. Which really defeats the whole 'trying not to resent other people's happiness' objective. So you get home and try to brainstorm while cooking a nutritious, non-fattening dinner which you are just putting on the table when your cell phone alarm goes off, reminding you that you have a visiting teaching appointment with the one lady with whom you can never schedule an appointment, so you grab your Ensign and race out the door (leaving your dad to eat a nice warm meal) and walk half a block to her house, only to realize as you ring the doorbell that it is starting to drizzle. By the time you are done with said visit, it is really raining, but you decline her offer to drive you home because, really, it is only half a block. So you walk in the door shivering and wet and inhale a slightly dried-out dinner (because your dad thoughtfully put it in the oven to keep it warm, but the heat also made it a little dry) and then blow all your new self-imposed dietary goals by also inhaling a piece of ice cream cake leftover from your dad's birthday, thus putting you, like, 1200 calories over your goal and one step closer to the being the 330 lb. woman with a front butt that you fear you will become. And when you finally give up, put on your pajamas at 6:45 pm and sit down to finish the cover letter, your iTunes decides to play Stacey Kent's version of "Too Darn Hot" and you realize it is maliciously mocking you because you are neither hot (in either sense of the term) nor do you have a 'baby'. Which is when you start a rambling diatribe of a blog entry and make iTunes play ABBA's Gold album because a) you can sing along to it without wanting to cry and b) you are really excited about the film of Mamma Mia coming out this summer. Because who isn't excited about watching Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan, and Colin Firth singing ABBA tunes? I think $8 is totally reasonable sum for the privilege of watching Mr. Darcy belt "Our Last Summer," don't you?