Tuesday, May 31, 2005 Who's that on the money? He is talking to me!
Tonight I was counting out my drawer at the beauty parlor, and I was bank-facing like crazy, because I get confused and helpless if the bills are facing different directions. Someone had written "don't abort" on the back of a ten.
I scratched out "abort" and couldn't think of what else to add. I thought of leaving it as "don't." It's a generally admonition, currency user. Mend your fucking ways, and whatever you're thinking, it's wrong.
I changed to "don't preach" after a second, and put it back in the stack, and--this is the miracle of every workday--eventually, I went home.
I think the idea was that I or another young lady of easy virtue would be counting up her month's abortion cash, and then all of a sudden, there would be this message, right there on the money, just like it was a sign from God.
You have to be the kind of jackass who gets really slippery and flushed with the idea of fucking with people's heads to do something like that. It's like being an angry teen and going to the mall, "To freak out the normals!" (Ask me how I know.) The arrogance, the simple-minded glee. I could do a backflip.
Do you write your secret messages to the godless sluts of the world on just a few pieces of currency as your whimsy takes you, my anonymous crusader, or are you vigilant, scribbling away every time you get a chance for a new transaction? What if you forget a bill, and in that way, allow the death of a zygote? What will you do then? How will you sleep? I bet you weren't even thinking. I bet you were just having a good time. Tell that to the devil in hell.
Are you etching it on your coins, too, secret mind-fuck penpal? Why not?
Don't you care? posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/31/2005 10:50:00 PM
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Sunday, May 29, 2005 greatly enjoys repetitive tasks
This morning some housies and I went to the farmer's market under the overpass, and I was so glad to be back. Turns out it's been open for the past three Sundays or something, but we didn't get the memo. Everybody was thinking June first, but that doesn't make sense. Last year I moved down here the week before Memorial Day, and after the big summer party, some of us woke up and went.
Today a guest came with us, and she tried to get us to go get coffee and donuts first, and then to make a clockwise loop around to all the stalls. I just don't understand what's with people. We go counter-clockwise, like reasonable human beings. Coffee (optional) and donuts come last. The donut guys cook the donuts in a vat of bubbling fat right before your eyes. Boys receive six tiny donuts in their orders. Girls get seven.
Soon, it will be time to go back to sleep. I'm weak and stupid this morning, and my hair is unkempt. I'm really enjoying my weekend off. I don't have to go to work tomorrow, either: I get an actual three-day weekend. All day on Friday, people called the beauty parlor looking for Saturday appointments, and when I told them we'd be closed for the holiday, they wailed and moaned and got a bad case of the OMGs. Huff, huff. How dare you?
It's nice, sometimes, to know that people are going to respond in the same way to the same thing over and over again. The situation where one comes up with the perfect comeback hours later and kicks oneself all day doesn't come up in the workplace for me, because I get to say what I should have said again mere seconds after I think of it. People would react, and I tailored a casual little speech, "Oh, yes, we're getting the holiday weekend off..."
I think I kept it casual, but I do know that by the end of the day, people were apologizing to me, so perhaps the fire in my soul began to influence my phone voice a little bit.
Last night I even did something authentically holiday weekendish and roasted marshmallows over a fire. My boyfriend* has these fun friends who are always having parties and after parties and get-togethers and stuff, and sometimes they set things on fire, and it's great. Nobody rocks like the suburbs, for real.
*(Damn!) posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/29/2005 12:00:00 PM
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Friday, May 27, 2005 Honey, you'll never guess where I'm calling from!
My flat iron is heating in the other room, and I am typing in my skivvies, because I can't OMG decide what to wear. Outfit Challenge arises like the perfect storm from these concurrent factors:
-Last night when I gathered a load of laundry so giant it had to be divided into two loads, my housekeeper threw half the pile into the wash at random, and oh my god is she a stupid whore. In the pile of stuff I was not able to wash before I went to bed was pretty much every reasonable component of a work outfit.
-Today's outfit has to be comfortable enough to wear for a long day of semi-menial labor at the beauty parlor, yet attractive enough that I can wear it out later without shame once my backbreaking day of beauty is done and it's time to go destroy people at pool or whatever it is I do in my time off.
-No one at work has ever or will ever be like, "Is it really appropriate to wear that you total whore?" The most xxx-treme items of my wardrobe, when I've come to work wearing them for gothic monday or because I had no choice, have prompted nothing but compliments and imitation.
-I still have to get between the house and my job under the prying eyes of non-hairstylists, and they are not so open minded.
-I am so bored with making dumb little penny ante decisions like clothes, and I would rather be famous instead. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/27/2005 08:45:00 AM
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Thursday, May 26, 2005 The link shows where I steal a lot of my punchlines
Who has the day off tomorrow? Me. (I do.) One of my housemates is playing a video that looks good, but it's subtitled, and as you know, I can't read. I prefer to do too many things at once to be able to really get into a subtitled movie. Reading a movie as you watch it? What, then, is supposed to distract me from the tea I've left to steep? I can't drink hot tea like a normal person: that would be unusual.
I feel like a real jerk referring to people as "one of my housemates" or "whoever was at the bus stop with me" or whatever, but it's the best I can do, I think. I worry about venturing into cute alias territory, for one thing. Gag. Gag. No. In me, I mean. It's fine when you do it, internet. I see why you do it, too. Calling someone by their first name in public space feels like writing it on a bathroom wall, even if I am just saying that we had lunch. I can handle it a little bit on other diary site formats, but this...I dunno. Are you bored? I'm bored.
Writing about blogs on a blog and blog blog blog blog blog blog. Come on.
It's on my mind, though. I think about the internet more than reasonable people do. I'm convinced that everyone lives on the internet like I live on the internet, so that I can't write about anything without everyone I deal with every day knowing, instantly.
Just now I was thinking about writing about one of my favorite inspirational topics, how bad people still get together, and I was going to use a real life example. The example was fairly gentle, even. It was a variation on the theme: wack-a-doo lunatics can form couples, too!
The thing is, I was going to use supporting detail from real life as I live it, and since I don't live a lot of real life, I was pretty much going to talk shit on some people I deal with at work. Talking shit is my calling, and in non-typed communication, I do it all the time. One time a girl in Richmond went around insinuating she was going to beat me up, I talked so much shit.
Well, she never did, right? So I never learned my lesson. Instead, I got maturity, which is awesome. Now I know to remain cagey and keep my biting little observations so wide-eyed that one might never know what I was up to.
I can't tell you about the couple I had in mind, but isn't it nice, though, that complete psychopaths can meet, fall in love, and marry? posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/26/2005 02:00:00 AM
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Monday, May 23, 2005 Quickly
One thing I did in the course of an action-packed weekend was go to to Patapsco with my housies and a friend, as well as a forbidden dog. Evidently pets aren't allowed there, but it seemed mean to drive the dog all the way to the park, show it the woods and fields, and then turn around and leave.
No rangers came near us. Everyone I know is above the law.
What a time, though, right? I was nearly dead by the time it was time to go out in nature and all that, but not really. My rock and roll lifestyle is taking a lot out of me, but it's putting a lot back, too. Nearly everywhere I go now, I'm aware that I'm surrounded by people with internet presences. It's not what I'd been aiming for all these years, but it's pretty fun.
I feel like writing more, but now I have to go somewhere else. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/23/2005 09:05:00 AM
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Friday, May 20, 2005 Heads up.
It's an open Balto-secret where I work. I don't go out of my way to hide identifying details, because I'm a fucking nobody, and who the hell cares, right? Like, it's really rare that I have to duck the papparazzi, and when it does come up, I don't actually duck.
Here's the thing: today in a little lull before closing, I did one of the pathetic things I do to stay diverted with the materials at hand, and I counted the number of customers that I'd dealt with personally, face to face. It was like, a hundred and six or something.
Think of one hundred six people that you know. Are any of them effing crazy? Are any of them ever inappropriate? Now think about another couple hundred people, and that's roughly the number of people I get facetime with each week, out there in, as they say on the damn internet, "RL". And then there's another week, and another, and the hits just keep on coming.
Now, imagine a boss. Perhaps, in the past, you've had a boss. Would your boss like it if you took out a giant billboard telling amusing stories about your workplace?
Word to the wise, localzzz: don't link my name or this blog to the proper name of my workplace. Google is watching you right now. If you don't know, now you know. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/20/2005 08:43:00 PM
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Thursday, May 19, 2005 Are you sick of the bus, yet? Good, me too.
Today I was waiting for the bus, but I had pleasant company, so it was great. Then the bus came, and that was great, too. Hello, bus! Hello, world! I nearly ran right into a guy outside the bus shelter, because I was distracted. I didn't, though. It was OK! I got on the bus.
No one else did, even though a bunch of people had been waiting. They didn't want to leave the bus stop. It made sense. That bus stop was absolutely fantastic, and I was living proof.
Anyway, a few blocks later, the bus pulled over, and the driver kicked us all off, and I learned a harsh lesson about reading the destination sign instead of just looking at the route number. I didn't mind. Bus schedules are works of fiction, and shame on me for not knowing that.
I walked the same way I usually go. Hello, sidewalk. Hello, weedy lot. You're looking lush today. Hello, sacks of garbage, and look at how you gleam in the sun. Cherish, cherish. Enjoy, enjoy.
I walked past a couple of dudes sitting on a curb, and as I passed, one of them spoke frankly to me about my rack. I never respond to advances of this nature, because I'm fucking afraid of dudes. Who isn't, right?
Then today it was one of those moments where you do something really out of character without thinking about it. I went back and asked him why he thought it was OK to say things like that, that I didn't enjoy it, it wasn't a compliment, I was a fucking human being, and I just wanted to walk down the street. He considered his response and spoke slowly so that I would understand. "You're a woman," he said. I thought that was awesome, because that is what he said, an undoctored quote. He said some more stuff after that, but I couldn't hear him, because there was all this steam coming out of my ears. Our conversation lapsed into cussing shortly thereafter. I said some stuff, and he stopped looking at me and stared at the sidewalk instead. Then he came back strong and rebutted by standing up and getting in my face, and then turning to better show me that he was grabbing his own ass, and I took my leave. "Gimme a fucking break," I said in parting, and then I started walking the rest of the way home.
I was upset for a few blocks, but then there was a man and a dog on the sidewalk, and the man said nothing at all. The dog did even better. It was carrying a hat in his mouth and prancing about it, and when I walked past, it wagged its tail. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/19/2005 10:05:00 PM
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Wednesday, May 18, 2005 The sunk cost fallacy
After work today, I kept telling myself, "Be a man: you're walking home," but then I just went right over to the bus stop and sat down. I sat down for so long that I saw an Irish wolfhound and a little boy dressed as a policeman. This little boy is a harbinger of bad transit luck. He may be spectral.
When he appears, I know there will be no bus that day, but I have to test the theory every time.
I sat longer than was reasonable, and there was still no bus, and it hurt, because I knew that as soon as I got up to leave, the bus would arrive just out of my reach. Finally, I did leave, and if the bus came, it had the decency to do so when I was out of earshot.
I walked in spite of myself, and it was very pretty. I knew it was going to be. I don't mind getting up and moving around nearly as much as I used to, either. It's just that it takes forever. Walk, walk, walk. Ho-hum, Baltimore. I know you try to liven up my pedestrian commute for me by yelling exciting facts as I pass. I know you grow weeds three times taller than I am, and you incorporate beautiful blue and green glass right into the road, but my days are packed, and I have no time to plod around like a peasant.
I don't mean to keep writing about the bus, although transit schedules loom larger in my life than they probably should. Here is a change of pace: what I ate for lunch. Did y'all know that you're on the internet?
When I work a full day, I usually forget to bring lunch, and I play this game: if no one offers me food before a reasonable lunchtime, I can buy lunch. If someone offers me food, I have to have that for lunch instead. The game is flexible. I am not a monster. If someone offers me something I don't eat, I don't accept.
Today somebody offered me a row of marshmallow peeps, and I did accept. Later, I got my hair fussed with instead of taking a proper lunch, so for the rest of the day, I spaced out the peeps until they seemed most necessary.
I wore the elaborate system of foils my hairdresser work friend put on my head, and I cooked under the dryer while reading magazines. I was so direlict in duty that I was shocked and ashamed of myself, but I found out that certain celebrities are down-to-earth, and some trends are hot while others are not. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/18/2005 01:40:00 AM
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Monday, May 16, 2005 Some people go to work on Monday
My own workplace is closed for the hair conevntion downtown. I'm not going. I went yesterday, and that's probably enough. There were models dressed in outfits so silly that to describe them makes me feel like a liar: chaps made of feathers. I saw it with my own eyes, and still, I'm convinced that I just made that up.
The floor of the convention center was divided into booths, which I imagine is the way that conventions work, but I don't know, because it was my first one. My favorite section was the bargain shopping area, where promotional bags and free-with-purchase items were being resold to the hairdressers and I at rock-bottom prices. Had these items not come free or cheap from the manufacturers anyway, it would have been the deal of the century. There were tables and tables stacked with fake hair and cheap sunglasses. When a table had something pretty good, there was no way to get up to it without shoving elaborately dressed little women out of the way.
At other, classier booths, one could watch all kinds of things being demonstrated. Here was a woman in her fifties in heavy makeup, lying on her back on a quasi-medical looking couch with her arms folded over her chest like a mummy. She was there to demonstrate someone's eyebrow waxing technique, and when they pulled away the strips, she didn't flinch.
On stages all over the place, seventeen year olds were having things done to their hair that no one would believe if these procedures weren't facts of their day-to-day lives. Hair sizzled and smoked, and a man with a southern accent said, "You can sell flat-irons all day. They love it."
A woman at another booth applied highlights, and said, "We don't want any lines here. We want it to look natural." It may have been my imagination that told me she had cast a sidelong glance at my own highlights.
I was supposed to go there to take a class on how to be a better beauty parlor receptionist, because sometimes people conceive of such things, and then others pay them for their wicked ideas. It turns out they changed the hair convention schedule without notice, and the class was later in the day, so I blew it off. I saw my boss and told her I couldn't stay, and she said she would take notes and later share them with me. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/16/2005 02:12:00 PM
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Thursday, May 12, 2005 General Blogspital
Yesterday morning, I was five key minutes later than usual leaving the house, so I started walking quickly, but when I stepped off the curb, it seemed natural to keep the momentum going, so I ran for a few blocks. I can't run fast. I've been living fun the past few weeks, and I highly reccomend it to those who have the option available, but it doesn't make me feel like an athlete. I didn't want to miss the bus, though, and once I was running, why not keep running? I passed a bunch of school kids going somewhere with a teacher, and they started noticing me.
"Why is she running?" I heard one of them ask. "Does she have to go to the bathroom?"
All hell broke loose, and the teacher was powerless to stop it.
"The bathroom! The bathroom!"
"Calm down, now."
"She has to go to the bathroom."
"Oh, my God."
I was getting winded, but I kept going, because I didn't want to face them and explain that I didn't have to go to the bathroom after all.
I had to stop a little bit later, but I made it to my bus stop on time, and as a reward for my valor and athleticism, there were two buses stacked up behind each other, so I got to take the second, less crowded one.
Then that night, I had one drink too many, and I threw up right in the bar! It wasn't as bad as it could have been, because the path between me and the ladies' room was pretty open. It's hard to tally my shames and triumphs when they span such a broad base of experience. Yesterday I answered the phone 94 times, I know, because I was ticking off each call on a little piece of paper by the register. I may have answered the phone recreationally when I got home, too, but it didn't seem reasonable to keep track of that kind of thing on my own time.
I think I write on here like I'm an island, sometimes. I look back over old stuff, and it's hard to see what town I was living in or who I knew. Partially, I know from experience that I'm shitty at tying up loose ends. My archives are littered with the beginnings of what I know I'd planned as long stories, and then they trail off into nothing, and there is no part two. The more I keep each day like a separate little egg, the less I feel like I have to answer for later.
I worry, too, about writing about other people who may read the internet. It seems like I can either write like that's never going to happen, and no one will ever see this, or I can write in the point-by-point hanging out review format that I often dislike. You know: you have to link all the names, and if it follows the genre standards perfectly, then each linked name will post a similar review. I don't know. I think it's cute a lot of the time, and I get a kick out of it, but for some reason, whenever I do it, I kind of feel like an asshole.
Right now, I'm pretty low on angst and agony. I may have used it all up in a previous gig. It would make sense. My dad once had to go through a background check to get a job, and he nearly didn't pass, because over the course of many years of working with chemicals, he'd worn his fingerprints away. He'd never even noticed they were gone. The background checkers were suspicious: a man with no fingerprints was clearly perfect for the perfect crime.
Here I am: do have fingerprints. Don't have the doubts I maybe should. It is time for the big heist. I can get away with anything. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/12/2005 11:50:00 PM
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Wednesday, May 11, 2005 It's when one's calves and ankles are roughly the same size, and it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins
Point: When people come by themselves to get haircuts, they are usually so frightened that they are polite, but when they bring a crew, they get bold, and I hate it. It seems like every time two or more people come in together, they arrive late and act sassy. Today three dudes got in a fight with me about what time one of their appointments was. I said one time, they said another, later time. They said that when they'd missed their appointments the day before and rescheduled, I'd said the later time. I said, "No, I didn't." It went back and forth, and I'd tell you how it ended, but it's boring, and it doesn't matter, and I'm home now.
Counterpoint: Later on today, I was doing a load of towels, when I heard one stylist say to another, "She's got cankles!"
I got to pop out of the back room and yell, "Who's got cankles?" I've never gotten to do that on any other job in my life.
I had a good time today. I'm on the all coffee and pastry diet.
Did y'all know it's still Spring? posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/11/2005 12:21:00 AM
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Monday, May 09, 2005 "I'm a duuuuuuuuuuude!"*
My partying obligations have taken a lot out of me this weekend, so here it is three in the morning, and here I am still up, because I slept all day. I look forward to repenting one day. As it stands now, though, I plan to continue my life of sin for a good while.
This weekend I went to DC to see a show, and I did so much dancing that I was sore the next day, which was too bad, because then it was time to go and party in the suburbs. I had s'mores. It was that kind of party. Today, as I said, was a day of rest, but it had its moments, including standing on a balcony with my accomplice and watching three frat guys joyfully urinating on a car that was evidently not supposed to be parked in that lot.
My accomplice is good-looking.
*After some brainstorming, my housemates and I realized that this is what is generally being yelled at us from cars. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/09/2005 03:15:00 AM
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Saturday, May 07, 2005 melody, gloucester, pegasus
Although soon we have to go shopping for cosmetics and Spring fashions, and before that, if we are to remain decent people, we should probably shower, let us take a moment to appreciate Leah.
Leah used to post like, once or twice a year, and it was always like, "Somebody was so high he put a chicken right on my head!!!" so it was worthwhile to check every day anyway, just in case that had happened. Now she is updating us on her crazy life like it is her job, and I am having a good time reading it. "Oh, now it's time to go rabbit shopping. Oh, now a mentally disabled teenager is calling me a 'Fucker.'" She's so cas. about all of it. Oh, you know. This old thing. My crazy life. You know.
I'm all cas.(It's actually pronounced "sosh", not "sock.") too, but, it's hard not to keep it low-key when it comes to my own life these days. I've been telling someone stories, lately, about what I used to get up to, and now compared to then, as far as narratives go, is like ho-hum. Seriously. Now vs. then is no contest. It's nicer to be happy than to be miserable, and it's nicer to feel secure than it is to feel terrified all the time, but in the olden days, even if I didn't always write about it, my life definitely generated more potential content.
I think it did, anyway. I don't want to be one of those people who reminsces about her crazy youth, especially since I'm not out of youth yet. But isn't that hard to take? Especially when the youth in question was pretty standard?
Anyway, Leah's been rabbit shopping, and she's been doing other stuff, and if you're good, she will let you send her some chickens on the internet. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/07/2005 11:27:00 AM
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Friday, May 06, 2005 Are you happy now?
Earlier tonight, I was out with some housemates shopping for candy, and there is no punchline, but I had fun. We have so much candy now, but I can't have any, because it has a special purpose. It's Spring, and it's time to lure children into the van. Sike. The purpose of the candy is not something I am currently at liberty to share.
I've been trying to write the story that my sister asked me about.
A few years ago, I lived in Delaware with my boyfriend at the time, in a furnished room in a townhouse outside of Wilmington. My landlord owned the house, and he was the kind of guy who thought it would be OK to rent out his spare bedroom to transients if he thought those transients' hearts were pure, and of course he did think that, bless him.
My landlord and his ex-girlfriend took a driving trip to Disneyworld a few weeks after they broke up. They took her car, along with his one child and her three. I heard the story of what happened when my landlord came back a week later, wild-eyed, with a three-day's growth of beard.
He was carrying his sleeping child slung over his shoulder. "Benadryl," he said. "Never could have gotten through the bus ride without it."
My landlord had been excited about going down there, before he and his girlfriend broke up. Even when they planned the trip, the relationship was fairly new, maybe a few months along. It was a little rocky, because his girlfriend's ex-husband kept calling from the prison where he was awaiting trial on manslaughter charges, and for some reason he had a real grudge against my landlord. He would call the girlfriend's house, and when one of the children answered, he would say, "Put mommy's boyfriend on the phone."
I like to think that on me, that old trick would have only worked once, and that after that, when the three-year-old came up to me with the phone in her hand, I would have stopped accepting the calls. Tell him I'm not here, baby. Tell him I'm in a meeting. There's a good girl.
When they broke up, my landlord decided it would be a shame to cancel the trip. Why not? It's OK to travel by car from Delaware to Florida with a recent ex, and your children, especially when your children hate each other.
The details of what exactly went wrong are hazy in my mind: I know that the ex-girlfriend got upset about every little thing, according to my landlord. By the time they got to the campground where they were staying in Orlando, the girlfriend for some reason refused to let her children share food with my landlord and his child. Instead they huddled away at a picnic table and ate raw hotdogs.
Still, my landlord soldiered on, and when it was finally time for everyone to go to Disneyworld, they all went together. They had a bad time. No matter how they tried to get along, the petty little biting remarks and unreasonable demands got worse and worse. They had a fight, a screaming, furious fight, right there in Ariel's Grotto, and my landlord stormed away.
He took everything of his from the campsite and went somewhere else to stay. He and his little boy successfully avoided the other family for the rest of his vacation, and when it was time to go back, he drugged the child to shut it up (He did the right thing.) and took a Greyhound bus for the twenty-odd hours it took to get back.
The last romantic prospect that my landlord had going before I moved out had him wandering dreamily into the kitchen one day and asking me if I thought it was OK to marry a stranger so that she could get a greencard. I forget what all I said to that.
I don't think he married anybody. He used to call my ex's cellphone every now and then and offer us his dog. He was sad a fair amount of the time, and I always felt a little bad for him. When I think of him now, though, I picture him in his finest hour, standing up for himself in Ariel's Grotto. There may be a moral, but if so that was not my intention, and I apologize. Goodnight. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/06/2005 12:43:00 AM
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Wednesday, May 04, 2005 Heart so free and like a feather
Soon, I'll be asleep, but first I'll stay up and wait for the laundry to finish, so that I can have clean clothes for work tomorrow.
I couldn't even come up with a cute story about pets as I had previously threatened. I sure as damn am not up for digging up other stories tonight.
When I look back at my life a couple years ago, I get mad, and I don't want to be mad! Who does? How unpleasant! There is only so much one-damn-thing-after-another that I can remember. It blurs together into one solid mass of What was I thinking?
Let's never think about it again. OK, we won't. How's your night going? Just fine, and yours?
My favorite stories to tell used to be shaggy dog stories. I liked to explain a million ins and outs to whoever was listening. I liked jokes that dragged on and on to one dumb punchline and made people groan.
Now I like to keep it brief, and I like to keep it light. A happened, then B happened, then C happened. Helium and iceberg lettuce. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/04/2005 01:01:00 AM
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Monday, May 02, 2005 Freestyle
It turns out that I flounder and delete posts when I try to write directly about my life as it happens. This is the same problem I used to have when I was a child and I had no internet, and tried to write letters to pen pals. I only had one pen pal. She lived about 20 minutes away. I wrote her all these letters like, "Dear L_____, How are you. What are you doing now? I am in my living room writing you this letter," and I would try to continue the letter in real time. The letters ended up being short, mostly.
I feel the same way now. "This is what I did today. This is what I did yesterday." The funny thing is, I'm absolutely flying these days. I am. I can't write a blog much, because I am in space, directly over the moon, and I am ashamed write about that, kind of. I don't want to inx-jay any kind of good fortune, and I don't want to get as smug as I am capable of getting. I am already so smug, just day to day as a regular person. If I let it out now--Jesus. I don't know. I don't believe in jinxes. It just seems a little bit showy to go around saying one is happy, but one is, one knows.
It remains springtime on the internet. I have been going out, in very good company, and damned if I'm not going to keep doing that. The paparazzi are beginning to notice, and my doings are the talk of the beauty parlor. Up until very recently, my co-workers had imagined that I was doomed to be a spinster, no matter how many foil highlights they applied to my head.
My sister keeps asking me to write out this one story from a few years ago, but I'm not sure if I remember enough of the details that made it good.
Let's make a deal: if I get a good night's sleep tonight and blow off my obligations to make my own hair stylish tomorrow, then we'll see if I have time to write it out before work tomorrow. If not, cute story about pets, or: worse!!!!!. You've been warned. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 5/02/2005 11:31:00 PM
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